At the next corner he turned toward home. Edith stopped and watched his valiant young back, his small train of followers. He was going to be very sad when he knew, poor Joe, with his vicarious fatherhood, his cluttered, noisy, anxious life. Life was queer. Queer and cruel. From the doctor's office, the waiting room lined with patient figures, she went on. She had a very definite plan in mind, but it took all her courage to carry it through. Outside the Benedict Apartments she hesitated, but she went in finally, upheld by sheer determination. The chair at the telephone desk was empty, but Sam remembered her. “He's out, miss,” he said. “He's out most all the time now, with the election coming on.” “What time does he usually get in?” “Sometimes early, sometimes late,” said Sam, watching her. Everything pertaining to Louis Akers was of supreme interest those days to the Benedict employees. The beating he had received, the coming election, the mysterious young woman who had come but once, and the black days that had followed his return from the St. Elmo--out of such patchwork they were building a small drama of their own. Sam was trying to fit in Edith's visit with the rest. The Benedict was neither more moral nor less than its kind. An unwritten law kept respectable women away, but the management showed no inclination to interfere where there was no noise or disorder. Employees were supposed to see that no feminine visitors remained after midnight, that was all. “You might go up and wait for him,” Sam suggested. “That is, if it's important.” “It's very important.” He threw open the gate of the elevator hospitably. At half past ten that night Louis Akers went back to his rooms. The telephone girl watched him sharply as he entered. “There's a lady waiting for you, Mr. Akers.” He swung toward her eagerly. “A lady? Did she give any name?” “No. Sam let her in and took her up. He said he thought you wouldn't mind. She'd been here before.” The thought of Edith never entered Akers' head. It was Lily, Lily miraculously come back to him. Lily, his wife. Going up in the elevator he hastily formulated a plan of action. He would not be too ready to forgive; she had cost him too much. But in the end he would take her in his arms and hold her close. Lily! Lily! It was the bitterness of his disappointment that made him brutal. Wicked and unscrupulous as he was with men, with women he was as gentle as he was cruel. He put them from him relentlessly and kissed them good-by. It was his boast that any one of them would come back to him if he wanted her. Edith, listening for his step, was startled at the change in his face when he saw her. “You!” he said thickly. “What are you doing here?” “I've been waiting all evening. I want to ask you something.” He flung his hat into a chair and faced her. “Well?” “Is it true that you are married to Lily Cardew?”