there fell on his ears the once horribly familiar accents--plaintive,
wheedling, falsely timorous--of his dead wife's voice....

"Is that you, Shirley? I didn't know that you was at home. The
windows were all dark, and--" In an injured tone this: "I've been
waiting here ever so long for you to come in!"

The wraith-like figure before him was only too clearly flesh and
blood, and, as he stepped forward, it moved quickly across, and
stood, barring his way, on the top stone step of the big staircase.

Sherston remained silent. He could think of nothing to say. But
his mind began to work with extraordinary rapidity and lucidity.

There was only one thing to do, here and now. That was to give
the woman standing there a little money--not much--and tell her to
come back again the next day. Having thus got rid of her--he knew
that on no account must she be allowed to stay here the night--he
must go at once to Mr. Pomeroy and tell him of this terrible, hitherto
unimaginable, calamity. He told himself that it would be, if not
exactly easy, then certainly possible to arrange a divorce.

Determinedly, in these tense, terrible moments, he refused to let
himself face the coming anguish and dismay of the morrow. It was
just a blow, straight between the eyes from fate--that fate who he
had foolishly thought had been kind.

"Well? Are you going to let me stand here all night?"

"No, of course not. Wait a minute--I'm thinking." He spoke in a