with domesticity, and his business could not be neglected for the long
vacation abroad to which they both had looked forward so ardently.

Sometimes, even before this vague gray mist had risen between them, he
had had moments of wondering whether he knew his wife at all. How could a
man know a woman who did not yet know herself? He sighed and wished he
had more time to explore the uncharted seas of a woman's soul.

But the cause of the change in her was something far less picturesque,
something concrete and sinister. He felt sure of that....


VII

Unless--but that was ridiculous! Impossible!

He sprang to his feet, incredulous, disgusted at the mere thought.

But why not? She was very young, and older and wiser women were afflicted
with inconsistencies, little tenacious desires and vanities never quite
to be grasped by the elemental male.

He went over to a bookcase containing heavy works of reference and
pressed his index finger into the molding. It swung outward, revealing
the door of a safe. He manipulated the combination, took from a drawer of
the interior a box, opened it and stared at a magnificent Burmah ruby. It
was or had been a royal jewel, presented to Masewell Price by one of the
great princes of India whose portrait he had painted. The pearls had all
been captured long since by Price's sisters and by Morgan V. for his
wife; but this ruby his mother had given him as she lay dying. She had