The Inspector has arrested him, worse luck.

I say 'worse luck,' because now we can't hush up the affair--and, you'll have to _go_." Heyton wiped the sweat from his face, his head sank on his breast; he was in a condition of coma; so stupefied, indeed, that it was only by an effort he could follow the detective's next words, "There is only one other person--well, say, two--who suspect you, Lord Heyton.

But she will keep her lips shut.

She is your wife--fortunately for you." He went to the sideboard, poured out some brandy and pushed the glass towards the wretched man.
"Drink that, my lord, and pull yourself together," he said, in a matter-of-fact way.

"That's right," as Heyton stretched out a shaking hand and poured some of the spirit down his throat and some over his waistcoat.