"Why, Mr. Leroux!" she cried, "I shall CERTAINLY report you to Mira,
now! You have not even touched the omelette!"

"Good God! Cumberly! stop her!" muttered Exel, uneasily. "The door was
not latched!"...

But it was too late. Even as the physician turned to intercept his
daughter, she crossed the threshold of the study. She stopped short
at perceiving Exel; then, with a woman's unerring intuition, divined a
tragedy, and, in the instant of divination, sought for, and found, the
hub of the tragic wheel.

One swift glance she cast at the fur-clad form, prostrate.

The chafing-dish fell from her hand, and the omelette rolled, a
grotesque mass, upon the carpet. She swayed, dizzily, raising one hand
to her brow, but had recovered herself even as Leroux sprang forward to
support her.

"All right, Leroux!" cried Cumberly; "I will take her upstairs again.
Wait for me, Exel."

Exel nodded, lighted his cigar, and sat down in a chair, remote from the
writing-table.

"Mira--my wife!" muttered Leroux, standing, looking after Dr. Cumberly
and his daughter as they crossed the lobby. "She will report to--my
wife."...