That very day he had
been introduced to a Mademoiselle Le Brun, a fascinating young Parisian,
stopping at the Tirol with her mother.
All might have ended well had it not been for the unfortunate
circumstance of Odell-Carney's making a purchase of the London
_Standard_ instead of the _Times_, as was his custom. His lamentations
over this piece of stupidity were cut short by the discovery of an
astonishing article upon the editorial page of the paper--an article
which created within him a sense of grave perplexity. He read the
headlines thrice and glanced through the text twice, neither time with
any very definite idea of what he was reading. His fingers shook as he
held the sheet nearer the window for a final effort to untangle the
incredible thing that lay before him in simple, unimpeachable black and
white.
"'Pon me word," he kept repeating to himself feebly. Then he got up and
went off in extreme haste to find his wife.
"My dear," he said to her in the carriage-way, "I must speak with you
alone." She was just starting off for a drive with Mrs. Rodney.
"Bad news, Carney?" she demanded, struck by his expression. She was
following him toward a remote corner of the approach. He did not reply
until they were seated, much nearer to each other than was their wont.
"Read that," he said, slipping the _Standard_ into her hands. "Wot do
you think of it?"
"My dear Carney, I don't know.
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