The two men parted upon the pavement. Mr. Skinner, with his small
bowler hat on the back of his head, a fresh cigar in the corner of
his mouth, and his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, strolled
along Broadway with something akin to a smile parting his lips, and
showing his yellow teeth.

"Darned old fool," he muttered. "To marry a slap-up handsome woman
like that, and then pretend not to know what it means when she bolts.
Guess I'll spoil his supper to-night."

Mr. Sabin, however, was recovering his spirits. He, too, was
leaning back in the corner of his carriage with a faint smile
brightening his hard, stern face. But, unlike Mr. Skinner, he did
not talk to himself.



CHAPTER IV

R. Sabin, who was never, for its own sake, fond of solitude, had
ordered dinner for two at eight-thirty in the general dining-room.
At a few minutes previous to that hour Mr. Skinner presented himself.

Mr. Skinner was not in the garb usually affected by men of the world
who are invited to dine out. The long day's exertion, too, had had
its effect upon his linen. His front, indeed, through a broad gap,
confessed to a foundation of blue, and one of his cuffs showed a
marked inclination to escape from his wrist over his knuckles. His
face was flushed, and he exhaled a strong odour of cigars and
cocktails. Nevertheless, Mr. Sabin was very glad to see him, and