Courtlandt Tells a Story

"A woman would a good deal rather believe circumstantial evidence than
not. Humph!" The colonel primed his pipe and relighted it. "She couldn't
have been worth much."

"Worth much!" cried Abbott. "What do you imply by that?"

"No man will really give up a woman who is really worth while, that is, of
course, admitting that your man, Courtlandt, is a man. Perhaps, though,
it was his fault. He was not persistent enough, maybe a bit spineless. The
fact that he gave up so quickly possibly convinced her that her
impressions were correct. Why, I'd have followed her day in and day out,
year after year; never would I have let up until I had proved to her that
she had been wrong."

"The colonel is right," Abbott approved, never taking his eyes off
Courtlandt, who was apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the bread
crumbs under his fingers.

"And more, by hook or crook, I'd have dragged in the other woman by the
hair and made her confess."

"I do not doubt it, Colonel," responded Courtlandt, with a dry laugh. "And
that would really have been the end of the story. The heroine of this
rambling tale would then have been absolutely certain of collusion between
the two."

"That is like a woman," the Barone agreed, and he knew something about
them. "And where is this man now?"

"Here," said Courtlandt, pushing back his chair and rising. "I am he." He
turned his back upon them and sought the garden.

Tableau!

"Dash me!" cried the colonel, who, being the least interested personally,
was first to recover his speech.