And they knew it too. They all know it. They--"
"Rubbish! You forget that the whole Rodney tribe is up in arms because
Medcroft is making love to his wife's sister. They're not assuming
anything there, let me tell you. And he's not Edith's lover. If he's not
her husband, he's playing a part that she understands and approves. And
this--this, my dear Carney, may account for the imaginary orphanage of
Tootles. Dear me, it's quite a tangle."
"I shall telegraph my solicitors at once for definite news. They'll know
whether the real Medcroft is in London, and then--well, by Jove, Agatha,
I can't tell just wot steps I'll take in regard to these Rodneys."
He went into a long tirade against the unfortunate Seattle-ites, as he
called them. "Understand me, Agatha, I don't blame Mrs. Medcroft. If
she's having an affair with this chap and can pull the wool--"
"But she isn't having an affair with this chap," cried Mrs.
Odell-Carney, her patience exhausted. "She's having an affair with a
chap in London--the one who writes--Good gracious! Of course! Why, what
fools we are. The real Medcroft is in London, and it is he who is
writing the letters. How stupid of me!"
"Aha!" exclaimed he triumphantly. "Of course, she's getting letters from
her husband. Why not? That's to be expected. But, by the everlasting
shagpat, do you suppose that her husband knows she's off here with
another fellow who masquerades as her husband? No!" He almost shouted
it.
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