I was in it. My head, how they
treated her! What I never did understand, you know, was how you found out
where she was."
Ingram smiled. His memories now amused him. He looked straight at his
friend. "I'll tell you that. It was rather neat. You remember that chap
Senhouse--loafing kind of artist? Anarchist, gypsy-looking chap, who wore
no hat?"
Chevenix opened his eyes. "By George, I do!"
Ingram nodded. "She thought no end of him. He took her affair with me very
much to heart."
"As well he might," said Chevenix. "I fancy that you were the only person
who took it easy."
"Sancie used to tell him everything," Ingram went on, "and she told him
all the trouble. She'd been turned adrift with fifty pounds to her name."
"Not quite so bad as that," Chevenix put in. "They locked her up with an
aunt, and she bolted."
"Same thing," said Ingram. "Well, this chap Senhouse comes here one day in
a mighty hurry--turns up at breakfast, and makes a row. Wants me to swear
I'll divorce and marry Sancie. Says he thinks I'm a blackguard and all
that, but that, on the whole, I'd better marry her. Refuses to give me her
address, all the same. We had a row, I remember, because he began to tell
me what he thought about her.
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