man in the club was Flamel.

Glennard, as he heard himself almost involuntarily pressing Flamel
to come and dine, felt the full irony of the situation. To use
Flamel as a shield against his wife's scrutiny was only a shade
less humiliating than to reckon on his wife as a defence against
Flamel.

He felt a contradictory movement of annoyance at the latter's
ready acceptance, and the two men drove in silence to the station.
As they passed the bookstall in the waiting-room Flamel lingered a
moment and the eyes of both fell on Margaret Aubyn's name,
conspicuously displayed above a counter stacked with the familiar
volumes.

"We shall be late, you know," Glennard remonstrated, pulling out
his watch.

"Go ahead," said Flamel, imperturbably. "I want to get something--"

Glennard turned on his heel and walked down the platform. Flamel
rejoined him with an innocent-looking magazine in his hand; but
Glennard dared not even glance at the cover, lest it should show
the syllables he feared.

The train was full of people they knew, and they were kept apart
till it dropped them at the little suburban station. As they
strolled up the shaded hill, Glennard talked volubly, pointing out
the improvements in the neighborhood, deploring the threatened
approach of an electric railway, and screening himself by a series