"To begin with, there's one thing I want to say.
Understand I believe the whole story is a _canard_."
"What story?" asked Mark, sitting in his swivel-chair on one side of
the leather-topped writing-table, while Jimmy stood a foot from the
other.
"Of course," Jimmy continued, "I know there's not a grain of truth in
it. Still when such an abominable accusation has been made, it's just
as well to lose no time in scotching it."
Mark Driver had not the least suspicion. He sat with one elbow on the
table, one hand supporting his chin, his handsome, alert face wearing
the somewhat grave expression suitable to his professional environment.
His visit to Grandison Square the previous evening alone would have
been enough to prove, if proof were necessary, that Carrissima remained
blissfully ignorant of that trivial act of folly in Golfney Place. An
excellent test had been provided. Bridget's departure had been freely
discussed, and Carrissima had not shown the slightest embarrassment.
She had bidden him "good-bye" at eleven o'clock, and Colonel Faversham
had encouraged him to come again before many days.
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