husband. Just then the tall clock in the sitting-room struck ten
deliberately.

"It's late, and he's awake, smoking, now," whispered Sylvia.

Henry said nothing. He only grunted.

"Don't you think it's queer?"

"Oh no. I guess he's only reading," replied Henry. He had a strong
masculine loyalty towards Horace, as another man. He waited until he
heard Sylvia's heavy, regular breathing again. Then he slipped out of
bed and stole to the window. It was a strange night, very foggy, but
the fog was shot through with shafts of full moonlight. The air was
heavy and damp and sweet. Henry listened a moment at the bedroom
window, then he tiptoed out into the sitting-room. He stole across
the hall into the best parlor. He raised a window in there
noiselessly, looked out, and listened. There was a grove of pines and
spruces on that side of the house. There was a bench under a pine.
Upon this bench Henry gradually perceived a whiteness more opaque
than that of the fog. He heard a voice, then a responsive murmur.
Then the fragrant smoke of a cigar came directly in his face. Henry
shook his head. He remained motionless a moment. Then he left the
room, and going into the hall stole up-stairs. The door of the
southwest chamber stood wide open. Henry entered. He was trembling
like a woman. He loved the young man, and suspicions, like dreadful,
misshapen monsters, filled his fancy. He peeped into the little room
which he and Sylvia had fitted up as a bedroom for Horace, and it was
vacant.