But Irvin passed Hinkes and walked out under the porch with Margaret
Halley. Humid yellow mist floated past the street lamps, and seemed to
have gathered in a moving reef around the little runabout car which
was standing outside the house, its motor chattering tremulously.

"Phew! a beastly night!" he said. "Foggy and wet."

"It's a brute isn't it?" said the girl laughingly, and turned on the
steps so that the light shining out of the hallway gleamed on her
white teeth and upraised eyes. She was pulling on big, ugly, furred
gloves, and Monte Irvin mentally contrasted her fresh, athletic type
of beauty with the delicate, exotic charm of his wife.

She opened the door of the little car, got in and drove off, waving
one hugely gloved hand to Irvin as he stood in the porch looking after
her. When the red tail-light had vanished in the mist he returned to
the house and re-entered the library. If only all his wife's friends
were like Margaret Halley, he mused, he might have been spared the
insupportable misgivings which were goading him to madness. His mind
filled with poisonous suspicions, he resumed his pacing of the
library, awaiting and dreading that which should confirm his blackest
theories. He was unaware of the fact that throughout the interview he
had held the stump of cigar between his teeth. He held it there yet,
pacing, pacing up and down the long room.

Then came the expected summons. The telephone bell rang. Monte Irvin
clenched his hands and inhaled deeply. His color changed in a manner
that would have aroused a physician's interest. Regaining his
self-possession by a visible effort, he crossed to a small side-table