Part 55 (1/2)
How tragic is a man's fruitless fight on behalf of a friend! For one short instant Mrs. Porter allowed Mr. Penway to imagine that the victory was his, then she administered the _coup-de-grace_.
”Don't lie, you worthless creature,” she said. ”They stopped at my house on their way while the girl packed a suitcase.”
Mr. Penway threw up his brief. There are moments when the stoutest-hearted, even under the influence of old Bourbon, realize that to fight on is merely to fight in vain.
He condensed his emotions into four words.
”Of all the chumps!” he remarked, and, pouring himself out a further instalment of the raw spirit, he sat down, a beaten man.
Mrs. Porter continued to harry him.
”Exactly,” she said. ”So you see that there is no need for any more subterfuge and concealment. I do not intend to leave this room until you have told me all you have to tell, so you had better be quick about it. Kindly tell me the truth in as few words as possible--if you know what is meant by telling the truth.”
A belated tenderness for his dignity came to Mr. Penway.
”You are insulting,” he remarked. ”You are--you are--most insulting.”
”I meant to be,” said Mrs. Porter crisply. ”Now. Tell me. Where has Mr.
Winfield gone?”
Mr. Penway preserved an offended silence. Mrs. Porter struck the table a blow with a book which caused him to leap in his seat.
”Where has Mr. Winfield gone?”
”How should I know?”
”How should you know? Because he told you, I should imagine.
Where--has--Mr.--Winfield--gone?”
”C'nnecticut,” said Mr. Penway, finally capitulating.
”What part of Connecticut?”
”I don't know.”
”What part of Connecticut?”
”I tell you I don't know. He said: 'I'm off to Connecticut,' and left.”
It suddenly struck Mr. Penway that his defeat was not so overwhelming as he had imagined. ”So you haven't got much out of me, you see, after all,” he added.
Mrs. Porter rose.
”On the contrary,” she said; ”I have got out of you precisely the information which I required, and in considerably less time than I had supposed likely. If it interests you, I may tell you that Mr. Winfield has gone to a small house which he owns in the Connecticut woods.”
”Then what,” demanded Mr. Penway indignantly, ”did you mean by keeping on saying 'What part of C'nnecticut? What part of C'nnecticut? What part----'”
”Because Mr. Winfield's destination has only just occurred to me.” She looked at him closely. ”You are a curious and not uninteresting object, Mr. Penway.”