horized to hand to Oliva's husband on the
day of her wedding."

Beale took it from the other's fingers, read it carefully and tore it
into little pieces, after which conversation flagged. After awhile Beale
asked:

"What do I have to do to get a divorce?"

"Well," said the lawyer, "by the English law if you leave your wife and
go away, and refuse to return to her she can apply to a judge of the
High Court, who will order you to return within fourteen days."

"I'd come back in fourteen seconds if she wanted me," said Beale
fervently.

"You're hopeless," said Kitson, "you asked how you could get a divorce.
I presume you want one."

"Of course I do. I want to undo the whole of this horrible tangle. It's
absurd and undignified. Can nothing be done without Miss Cresswell
knowing?"

"Nothing can be done without your wife's knowledge," said Kitson.

He seemed to take a fiendish pleasure in reminding the unhappy young man
of his misfortune.

"I am not blaming you," he said more soberly, "I blame myself. When I
took this trust from poor John Millinborn I never realized all that it
meant or all the responsibility it entailed. How could I imagine that
the detective I employed to protect the girl from fortune hunters would
marry her? I am not complaining," he said hastily, seeing the wrath rise
in Beale's face, "it is very unfortunate, and you are as much the victim
of circumstances as I. But unhappily we have not been the real victims."

"I suppose," said Beale, looking up at the ceiling, "if I were one of
those grand little mediaeval knights or one of those gallant gentlemen
one reads about I should blow my brains out."

"That would be a solution," said Mr. Kitson, "but we should still have
to explain to your wife that she was a widow."

"Then what am I to do?"

"Have a cigar," said Kitson.

He took two from his vest pocket and handed one to his companion, and
his shrewd old eyes twinkled.

"It's years and years since I read a romantic story," he said, "and I
haven't followed the trend of modern literature very closely, but I
think that your job is to sail in and make the lady love you."

Beale jumped to his feet.

"Do you mean that? Pshaw! It's absurd! It's ridiculous! She would never
love me."

"I don't see why anybody should, least of all your wife," said Kitson,
"but it would certainly simplify matters."

"And then?"

"Marry her all over again," said Kitson, sending a big ring of smoke
into the air