No answer came. He sped from room to room, but all were empty.

She had gone. The house was there. The furniture was there. The canary
sang in its cage, the cook in the kitchen. The pictures still hung on
the walls. But she had gone. Everything was at home except his wife.

Finally, propped up against the cup he had once won in a handicap
competition, he saw a letter. With a sinking heart he tore open the
envelope.

It was a pathetic, a tragic letter, the letter of a woman endeavouring
to express all the anguish of a torn heart with one of those
fountain-pens which suspend the flow of ink about twice in every three
words. The gist of it was that she felt she had wronged him; that,
though he might forgive, he could never forget; and that she was going
away, away out into the world alone.

Mortimer sank into a chair, and stared blankly before him. She had
scratched the match.

* * * * *

I am not a married man myself, so have had no experience of how it
feels to have one's wife whizz off silently into the unknown; but I
should imagine that it must be something like taking a full swing with
a brassey and missing the ball. Something, I take it, of the same sense
of mingled shock, chagrin, and the feeling that nobody loves one, which
attacks a man in such circumstances, must come to the bereaved husband.
And one can readily understand how terribly the incident must have