“The wife-stealer,” exclaimed Alfred, and he clinched his fists in anticipation of the justice he would one day mete out to the despicable creature.
Now Jimmy had been called many things in his time, he realised that he would doubtless be called many more things in the future, but never by the wildest stretch of imagination, had he ever conceived of himself in the role of “wife-stealer.”
Mistaking Jimmy's look of amazement for one of incredulity, Alfred endeavoured to convince him.
“Oh, YOU'LL meet a wife-stealer sooner or later,” he assured him. “You needn't look so horrified.”
Jimmy only stared at him and he continued excitedly: “She's had the effrontery—the bad taste—the idiocy to lunch in a public restaurant with the blackguard.”
The mere sound of the word made Jimmy shudder, but engrossed in his own troubles Alfred continued without heeding him.
“Henri, the head-waiter, told me,” explained Alfred, and Jimmy remembered guiltily that he had been very bumptious with the fellow. “You know the place,” continued Alfred, “the LaSalle—a restaurant where I am known—where she is known—where my best friends dine—where Henri has looked after me for years. That shows how desperate she is. She must be mad about the fool. She's lost all sense of decency.” And again Alfred paced the floor.
“Oh, I wouldn't go as far as that,” stammered Jimmy.
“Oh, wouldn't you?” cried Alfred, again turning so abruptly that Jimmy caught his breath. Each word of Jimmy's was apparently goading him on to greater anger.
“Now don't get hasty,” Jimmy almost pleaded. “The whole thing is no doubt perfectly innocent. Talk to her gently. Win her confidence. Get her to tell you the truth.”
“The truth!” shouted Alfred in derision. “Zoie! The truth!”
Jimmy feared that his young friend might actually become violent. Alfred bore down upon him like a maniac.
“The truth!” he repeated wildly. “She wouldn't know the truth if she saw it under a microscope.
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