Wingate," she
said, "just as I think that Josephine is the dearest woman, and I hope
more than anything in the world--well, you know what I hope."
"I think I do," Wingate replied. "Thank you."
CHAPTER X
Andrew Slate, a very personable man in his spring clothes of grey tweed,
took up his hat and prepared to depart. Half-past twelve had just struck
by Wingate's clock, and the two men had been together since ten.
"You're a wonderful person, Wingate," Slate said, with a note of genuine
admiration in his tone. "I don't believe there's another man breathing
who would have had the courage to plan a coup like this."
Wingate shrugged his shoulders.
"The men who dig deep into life," he replied, as he shook hands, "are the
men who take risks. I was never meant to be one of those who scratch
about on the surface."
A note was slipped into his letter box as he let Slate out. He noticed
the coronet on the envelope and opened it eagerly. A glance at the
signature brought him disappointment. He read it slowly, with a hard
smile upon his lips:
My dear Mr. Wingate,
I am writing to express to you my sincere and heartfelt regret for last
night's unfortunate incident. I can do no more nor any less than to
confess in plain words that I was drunk. It is a humiliating confession,
but it happens to be the truth.
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