heart until I heard the outer door slam and the echo of
his footsteps die away.

Divorce! That was my only salvation. No, that would
be cowardly now. I would wait until he was on his feet
again, and then I would demand my old free life back once
more. This existence that was dragging me into the
gutter--this was not life! Life was a glorious,
beautiful thing, and I would have it yet. I laid my
plans, feverishly, and waited. He did not come back that
night, or the next, or the next, or the next. In
desperation I went to see the men at the office. No,
they had not seen him. Was there anything that they
could do? they asked. I smiled, and thanked them, and
said, oh, Peter was so absent-minded! No doubt he had
misdirected his letters, or something of the sort. And
then I went back to the flat to resume the horrible
waiting.

One week later he turned up at the old office which
had cast him off. He sat down at his former desk and
began to write, breathlessly, as he used to in the days
when all the big stories fell to him. One of the men
reporters strolled up to him and touched him on the
shoulder, man-fashion. Peter Orme raised his head and
stared at him, and the man sprang back in terror.
The smoldering eyes had burned down to an ash.
Peter Orme was quite bereft of all reason. They took him
away that night, and I kept telling myself that it wasn't
true; that it was all a nasty dream, and I would wake up