It had been our policy to take up different subjects for these
neighborhood dinners. Sperry was a reformer in his way, and on his
nights we generally took up civic questions. He was particularly
interested in the responsibility of the state to the sick poor. My
wife and I had "political" evenings. Not really politics, except in
their relation to life. I am a lawyer by profession, and dabble a
bit in city government. The Robinsons had literature.

Don't misunderstand me. We had no papers, no set programs. On the
Robinson evenings we discussed editorials and current periodicals,
as well as the new books and plays. We were frequently acrimonious,
I fear, but our small wrangles ended with the evening. Robinson was
the literary editor of a paper, and his sister read for a large
publishing house.

Mrs. Dane was a free-lance. "Give me that privilege," she begged.
"At least, until you find my evenings dull. It gives me, during all
the week before you come, a sort of thrilling feeling that the
world is mine to choose from." The result was never dull. She
led us all the way from moving-pictures to modern dress. She led
us even further, as you will see.

On consulting my note-book I find that the first evening which
directly concerns the Arthur Wells case was Monday, November the
second, of last year.

It was a curious day, to begin with. There come days, now and then,
that bring with them a strange sort of mental excitement. I have
never analyzed them. With me on this occasion it took the form of
nervous irritability, and something of apprehension. My wife, I