"It is the bottom part of an unfinished note," said Cumberly, slowly.
"It is written shakily in a woman's hand, and it reads:--'Your wife'"...

Leroux sprang to his feet and crossed the room in three strides.

"Wife!" he muttered. His voice seemed to be choked in his throat; "my
wife! It says something about my wife?"

"It says," resumed the doctor, quietly, "'your wife.' Then there's a
piece torn out, and the two words 'Mr. King.' No stop follows, and the
line is evidently incomplete."

"My wife!" mumbled Leroux, staring unseeingly at the fragment of paper.
"MY WIFE! MR. KING! Oh! God! I shall go mad!"

"Sit down!" snapped Dr. Cumberly, turning to him; "damn it, Leroux, you
are worse than a woman!"

In a manner almost childlike, the novelist obeyed the will of the
stronger man, throwing himself into an armchair, and burying his face in
his hands.

"My wife!" he kept muttering--"my wife!"...

Exel and the doctor stood staring at one another; when suddenly, from
outside the flat, came a metallic clattering, followed by a little
suppressed cry. Helen Cumberly, in daintiest deshabille, appeared in
the lobby, carrying, in one hand, a chafing-dish, and, in the other,
the lid. As she advanced toward the study, from whence she had heard her
father's voice:--