"Come, now, we'll take it quietly.

You're one of the best friends I have, and I want to know what they're saying about my wife." "It's that damned Brady!" exclaimed Perry, while he felt for his handkerchief, and blew his nose with violence.
"All right--it's that damned Brady ?" repeated Adams.
"If I didn't think more of you than of any man on earth I'd be shot before I'd tell you," protested Perry, and added with a desperate rush under fire.
"He had too much champagne last night--though, as for that matter, I've seen him upset by a cocktail--and afterward at billiards he told Skinker that--that Mrs.Adams--you understand, old chap, it's all his rot--was going to supper alone with him to-night--in his rooms after the opera.
Of course he was drunk and I wouldn't bet a cent on his word even when he's sober.

He's the kind of fool that tells of his conquests at the club," he wound up with scathing contempt.
For a moment Adams, looking away from him, stared silently into a shop window before which he stood--intent apparently upon the varied display of antique silver.

Then he turned squarely to Perry Bridewell and broke into a short, hard laugh.
"Well, Brady lied," he said.

"I promised Mrs.Adams that I would bring her home from the opera." It was no hesitation in his own voice, but the joyful relief which shone at him from Perry's face that brought him suddenly to a stop.