"I'll be shot if I do!" he said, and sat down again.

Then his voice grew a little uncertain, and he went on: "It is worrying me awfully, though, Henry.

If poor old Maurice does puff out--I suppose I ought to marry her--I----" Mr.Fordyce stiffened, and the sleepy look in his gray eyes altered to a flash of steel.
"Let us have a little plain speaking, Michael, old boy.

It is not as though I do not know the whole circumstance of your affair with Violet Hatfield.

I warned you about her in the beginning, when you met her at my sister Rose's, but, as usual, you would take your own course----" Michael began to speak, but checked himself--and Henry Fordyce went on.
"I have had a letter from Rose this morning--as you of course know, Violet is staying for this Whitsuntide with them, having dragged her wretched husband, dying of consumption as he is, to this merry party.
Well--Rose says poor Maurice is in a terrible state, caught a fresh cold on Saturday--and she adds, 'So I suppose we shall soon see Violet installed at Arranstoun as mistress.'" "I know--I heard from Violet herself this morning," and Michael put his head down dejectedly.
"Ebbsworth is only thirty-five miles from here," Mr.Fordyce announced with meaning.