hand none of the effects. He entered quietly, although there was no
apparent reason for such excessive caution. Then he locked the door
with the utmost care, although there was no apparent reason for
caution about that, either.

Even when he had thus barricaded himself, he paused to listen with
all the elemental fear of the cave man who dreaded the footsteps of
his pursuers. In the dim light of the studio apartment he looked
anxiously for the figure of his wife. Constance was not there, as
she had been on other nights, uneasily awaiting his return. What was
the matter? His hand shook a trifle now as he turned the knob of the
bedroom door and pushed it softly open.

She was asleep. He leaned over, not realizing that her every faculty
was keenly alive to his presence, that she was acting a part.

"Throw something around yourself, Constance," he whispered hoarsely
into her ear, as she moved with a little well-feigned start at being
suddenly wakened, "and come into the studio. There is something I
must tell you tonight, my dear."

"My dear!" she exclaimed bitterly, now seeming to rouse herself with
an effort and pretending to put back a stray wisp of her dark hair
in order to hide from him the tears that still lingered on her
flushed cheeks. "You can say that, Carlton, when it has been every
night the same old threadbare excuse of working at the office until
midnight?"

She set her face in hard lines, but could not catch his eye.