"He admitted as much," said Stanford Beale, "the parson was already there when I butted in."
"What steps are you taking to deal with this man van Heerden?"
Beale laughed helplessly.
"I cannot take any until Miss Cresswell recovers."
"Mrs. Beale," murmured Kitson, and the other went red.
"I guess we'll call her Miss Cresswell, if you don't mind," he said sharply, "see here, Mr. Kitson, you needn't make things worse than they are. I can do nothing until she recovers and can give us a statement as to what happened. McNorton will execute the warrant just as soon as we can formulate a charge. In fact, he is waiting downstairs in the hope of seeing" he paused, "Miss Cresswell. What does the doctor say?"
"She's sleeping now."
"It's maddening, maddening," groaned Beale, "and yet if it weren't so horrible I could laugh. Yesterday I was waiting for a 'hobo' to come out of delirium tremens. To-day I am waiting for Miss Cresswell to recover from some devilish drug. I've made a failure of it, Mr. Kitson."
"I'm afraid you have," said the other dryly; "what do you intend doing?"
"But does it occur to you," asked Kitson slowly, "that this lady is not aware that she has married you and that we've got to break the news to her? That's the part I don't like."
"And you can bet it doesn't fill me with rollicking high spirits," snapped Beale; "it's a most awful situation."
"What are you going to do?" asked the other again.
"What are you going to do?" replied the exasperated Beale, "after all, you're her lawyer."
"And you're her husband," said Kitson grimly, "which reminds me." He walked to his desk and took up a slip of paper. "I drew this out against your coming. This is a certified cheque for £400,000, that is nearly two million dollars, which I am authorized to hand to Oliva's husband on the day of her wedding."
Beale took it from the other's fingers, read it carefully
