"Nothing," said Clinton. "Plague on the Continent. Railway mishap on the
Great Northern. Another American Disaster."
"What's that?" said Merefleet with a touch of interest.
"Electric car accident. Ralph Warrender among the victims."
"Warrender! What! Is he dead?"
"Yes. Killed instantaneously. Did you know him?"
"I have met him in business. I wasn't intimate with him."
"Isn't he the man whose first wife was killed in a railway accident?"
said Clinton reflectively, glad to have diverted Merefleet's thoughts. "I
thought so. I met her once and was so smitten with her that I purchased
her portrait forthwith. The most marvellous woman's face I ever saw. The
man I got it from spoke of her with the most appalling enthusiasm. 'Mab
Warrender!' he said. 'If she is not the loveliest woman in U.S., I guess
the next one would strike us blind.' Here! I'll show it you. Netta wants
me to frame it."
Clinton got up and took a book from a cupboard. Merefleet was watching
him with strained eyes. His heart was thumping as if it would choke him.
He rose as Clinton laid the picture before him, and steadied himself
unconsciously by his friend's shoulder.
Clinton glanced at him in some surprise.
"Hullo!" he said. "A friend of yours, was she? My dear fellow, I'm sorry.
I didn't know."
But Merefleet hung over the picture with fascinated eyes. And his answer
came with a curiously strained laugh, that somehow rang exultant.
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