had the sense of walking into a room grown suddenly empty, as
though their thoughts were conspirators dispersed by his approach.
He felt the clutch of his old fear. What if his wife had already
sorted the papers and had told Flamel of her discovery? Well, it
was no news to Flamel that Glennard was in receipt of a royalty on
the "Aubyn Letters." . . .

A sudden resolve to know the worst made him lift his eyes to his
wife as the door closed on Flamel. But Alexa had risen also, and
bending over her writing-table, with her back to Glennard, was
beginning to speak precipitately.

"I'm dining out to-night--you don't mind my deserting you? Julia
Armiger sent me word just now that she had an extra ticket for the
last Ambrose concert. She told me to say how sorry she was that
she hadn't two--but I knew YOU wouldn't be sorry!" She ended with
a laugh that had the effect of being a strayed echo of Mrs.
Armiger's; and before Glennard could speak she had added, with her
hand on the door, "Mr. Flamel stayed so late that I've hardly time
to dress. The concert begins ridiculously early, and Julia dines
at half-past seven--"

Glennard stood alone in the empty room that seemed somehow full of
an ironical consciousness of what was happening. "She hates me,"
he murmured. "She hates me. . . ."


The next day was Sunday, and Glennard purposely lingered late in
his room. When he came downstairs his wife was already seated at
the breakfast-table. She lifted her usual smile to his entrance