"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. "I've never heard of anything so brazen. 'Gad, what nerve these
Americans have. Just to think of it!"

"I don't believe she is anything of the sort," declared his wife. "She's
as good as gold. You can't fool me, Carney. I know women."

"Deuce take it, Agatha, so do I. And wot's more, I know men."

"They're a poor lot, the kind you know. This pseudo Medcroft is not your
kind. He's a very clever chap and a gentleman."

"Now, look here, Agatha, don't imagine that I'm going to be such a cad
as to turn against 'em in their hour of trial. Not I. I'm more their
friend than ever. I'll help 'em to get away from here, and I'll bulldose
these Rodneys into holding their peace forever after. It's the Rodney
duplicity that I can't stand."

"Shall we stay here or shall we find an excuse to leave?" she asked
pointedly.