'Good-bye.'

Yes, there was a distinct chill in the atmosphere. Thank goodness,
thought Henry, as he walked to the station, it would be different
tomorrow morning. He had rather the feeling of a young knight who has
done perilous deeds in secret for his lady, and is about at last to
receive credit for them.

Geisenheimer's was as brilliant and noisy as it had been before when
Henry reached it that night, escorting a reluctant Minnie. After a
silent dinner and a theatrical performance during which neither had
exchanged more than a word between the acts, she had wished to abandon
the idea of supper and go home. But a squad of police could not have
kept Henry from Geisenheimer's. His hour had come. He had thought of
this moment for weeks, and he visualized every detail of his big scene.
At first they would sit at their table in silent discomfort. Then
Sidney Mercer would come up, as before, to ask Minnie to dance. And
then--then--Henry would rise and, abandoning all concealment, exclaim
grandly: 'No! I am going to dance with my wife!' Stunned amazement of
Minnie, followed by wild joy. Utter rout and discomfiture of that
pin-head, Mercer. And then, when they returned to their table, he
breathing easily and regularly as a trained dancer in perfect condition
should, she tottering a little with the sudden rapture of it all, they
would sit with their heads close together and start a new life. That
was the scenario which Henry had drafted.

It worked out--up to a certain point--as smoothly as ever it had done
in his dreams. The only hitch which he had feared--to wit, the
non-appearance of Sidney Mercer, did not occur. It would spoil the