I did not know then that she had gone with her maid to Brighton--intending to return that evening. It was a sudden whim, she told me subsequently, and she had not even informed the other servants of her intention. The pavements in the City were slimy with the dampness of the fog, and as an empty four-wheeler passed through Cornhill I hailed it, a most unusual choice on my part. The cabman, I noticed, was fairly elevated, but as these fellows often drive better when drunk than sober, I simply told him to be careful, and jumped in. I reached Sloane Square all right, and detained the cab for my intended journey home in time for dinner. At the door of Mrs. Hillmer's flat I met the cook and housemaid, both going out to do some shopping, probably, in the spare hour before it was time to prepare dinner. They knew me well, of course, and admitted me to the drawing-room, telling me that Mrs. Hillmer was out, but would surely return very soon. I had not been in the room a minute before the sharp double knock of a telegraph messenger brought the coachman, whom the girls left in charge of the house, to the door, and I startled the man by appearing in the hall, as he did not know of my presence. "What is it, Simmonds?" I said, as I correctly guessed the message to be from Mrs. Hillmer. "The missus is in Brighton, sir," he answered. "She wants the carriage to meet her at Victoria at seven o'clock. It's six now, and I ought to go around to the stables at once, but both these blessed girls have gone out. I'm in a fair fix." "No fix at all," I said. "I want to see Mrs. Hillmer, so I will wait here until she arrives--or, at all events, till the servants come back." The man scratched his head, but he could think of no better plan, so he, too, went off, and I was left alone, for the first time in my life, in Mrs. Hillmer's abode. It is the small events that govern our lives, Claude, not those that stand out prominently. The shopping expedition of a couple of servant girls, intent on securing a new cap or a few yards of calico, brought about my wife's death, caused misery to many people, and ends, I sincerely hope, in my own speedy leap into oblivion. I picked up a novel, "Tess of the D'Urbervilles," hit upon the terrible episode that culminates on Salisbury Plain, and was soon deeply interested, when another knock--this time an imperative summons long drawn out--caused me to hasten to the door. I opened it, and in the dim light of the staircase landing, for a second did not recognize the lady who stood outside. Heaven help me, I was soon enlightened. My wife's voice was bitterly contemptuous as she said: "You don't keep a footman, it appears, in your new establishment, Charles." Had I been suddenly struck blind, or paralyzed, I could not have been more dumfounded than by Alice's unexpected appearance. A thorough scoundrel might, perhaps, have thought of the best thing to say. I blurted out the worst.