"Why didn't she telephone?" he said aloud slowly.

He looked at the letter again. He had made no mistake. It was from his
wife.

"If she's gone off again on some whim," he said angrily, "by George, I
won't stand for it."

Then carelessly inserting a finger, he broke the cover and glanced
hastily down the letter:

My dear Jackie:

When you have read this I shall have left you forever. Forget me and
try to forgive. In the six years we have lived together, you have
always been kind to me. But, Jack, there is something we cannot give
or take away, and because some one has come who has won that, I am
leaving you. I'm sorry, Jackie, I'm sorry.

Irene.

When he had read this once in unbelief, he read it immediately again,
approaching the lamp, laying it on the table and pressing his fists
against his temple, to concentrate all his mind.

"It's a joke," he said, speaking aloud.

He rose, stumbling a little and aiding himself with his arm, leaning
against the wall, went into her room, and opened the drawer where her