Three years ago,
Mr. Ingerman, you had parted from your wife. Your name was never
mentioned. Apparently, none in my circle had even heard of you. Miss
Melhuish had won repute as a celebrated actress. I met her, in a sense,
professionally. We became friends. I fancied I was in love with her. I
proposed marriage. Then, and not until then, did the ghost of Mr."--Grant
bent forward, and consulted the card--"Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman intrude."
"So marriage was out of the question?"
"If you expect an answer--yes."
Ingerman rested the handle of his stick against his lips.
"That isn't how the situation was represented to me at the time," he said
thoughtfully.
Grant was still sore with the recollection of the way in which the
superintendent of police had forced him to confess the pitiful scheme
whereby a woman in love had sought to gain her ends. He refused to sully
her memory a second time that day, even to gain the upper hand in this
troublesome controversy.
"I neither know nor care what representations may have been made to you,"
he retorted. "I merely tell you the literal truth."
"Possibly. Possibly. It was not I who used the word 'lie,' remember.
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