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“The truth is you wanted to forget all about her.”

He was a psychologist in his way, this beady-eyed little lawyer.

“Yes,” I said gratefully. “You see, it wasn’t as though I wanted to marry someone else.”

“But you do now, eh, is that it?”

“Well—” I showed reluctance.

“Come now, tell Papa,” said the odious Bradley.

I admitted, shamefacedly, that, yes, lately, I had considered marrying….

But I stuck my toes in and refused firmly to give him any details about the girl in question. I wasn’t going to have her brought into this. I wasn’t going to tell him a thing about her.

Again, I think my reaction here was the correct one. He did not insist. Instead he said:

“Quite natural, my dear sir. You’ve got over your nasty experience in the past. You’ve found someone, no doubt, thoroughly suited to you. Able to share your literary tastes and your way of life. A true companion.”

I saw then that he knew about Hermia. It would have been easy. Any inquiries made about me would have revealed the fact that I had only one close woman friend. Bradley, since receiving my letter making the appointment, must have found out all about me, all about Hermia. He was fully briefed.

“What about divorce?” he asked. “Isn’t that the natural solution?”

I said: “There’s no question of divorce. She—my wife—won’t hear of it!”

“Dear, dear. What is her attitude towards you, if I may ask?”

“She—er—she wants to come back to me. She—she’s utterly unreasonable. She knows there’s someone, and—and—”

“Acting nasty…I see…Doesn’t look as though there’s any way out, unless of course… But she’s quite young….”

“She’ll live for years,” I said bitterly.

“Oh, but you never know, Mr. Easterbrook. She’s been living abroad, you say?”

“So she tells me. I don’t know where she’s been.”

“May have been out East. Sometimes, you know, you pick up a germ out in those parts—dormant for years! And then you came back home, and suddenly it blows up. I’ve known two or three cases like that. Might happen in this case. If it will cheer you up,” he paused, “I’d bet a small amount on it.”

I shook my head.

“She’ll live for years.”

“Well, the odds are on your side, I admit… But let’s have a wager on it. Fifteen hundred to one the lady dies between now and Christmas: how’s that?”

“Sooner! It will have to be sooner. I can’t wait. There are things—”

I was purposely incoherent. I don’t know whether he thought that matters between Hermia and myself had gone so far that I couldn’t stall for time—or that my “wife” threatened to go to Hermia and make trouble. He may have thought that there was another man making a play for Hermia. I didn’t mind what he thought. I wanted to stress urgency.

“Alter the odds a bit,” he said. “We’ll say eighteen hundred to one your wife’s a goner in under a month. I’ve got a sort of feeling about it.”

I thought it was time to bargain—and I bargained. Protested that I hadn’t got that amount of money. Bradley was skillful. He knew, by some means or other, just what sum I could raise in an emergency. He knew that Hermia had money. His delicate hint that later, when I was married, I wouldn’t feel the loss of my bet, was proof of that. Moreover, my urgency put him in a fine position. He wouldn’t come down.

When I left him the fantastic wager was laid and accepted.

I signed some form of I.O.U. The phraseology was too full of legal phrases for me to understand. Actually I very much doubted that it had any legal significance whatever.

“Is this legally binding?” I asked him.

“I don’t think,” said Mr. Bradley, showing his excellent dentures, “that it will ever be put to the test.” His smile was not a very nice one. “A bet’s a bet. If a man doesn’t pay up—”

I looked at him.

“I shouldn’t advise it,” he said softly. “No, I shouldn’t advise it. We don’t like welshers.”

“I shan’t welsh,” I said.

“I’m sure you won’t, Mr. Easterbrook. Now for the er—arrangements. Mrs. Easterbrook, you say, is in London. Where, exactly?”

“Do you have to know?”

“I have to have full details—the next thing to do is to