A cold, blustery night in January, six months after the beginning of Yvonne's voluntary servitude in the prison to which her husband had committed her. In the big library, before a roaring fire, sat the two old men, very much as they had sat on the December night that heralded the approach of the new mistress of the house of Brood, except that on this occasion they were eminently sober. On the corner of the table lay a long, yellow envelope, a cablegram addressed to Mrs James Brood. “It's been here for two hours, and she don't even think of opening it to see what's inside,” complained Mr Riggs, but entirely without reproach. “It's her business, Joe,” said Mr Dawes, pulling hard at his cigar. “Maybe someone's dead,” said Mr Riggs dolorously. “Like as not, but what of it?” “What of it, you infernal--but, excuse me, Danbury, I won't say it. It's against the rules, God bless 'em. If anybody's dead, she ought to know it.” “But supposing nobody is dead.” “There's no use arguing with you.” “She'll read it when she gets good and ready. At present she prefers to read the letters from Freddy and Lyddy.” “Maybe it's from Jim,” said his friend, a wistful look in his old eyes. “I--I hope it is, by gee!” exclaimed the other, and then they got up and went over to examine the envelope for the tenth time. “I wish he'd telegraph or write, or do something, Dan. She's never had a line from him. Maybe this is something at last.” “What puzzles me is that she always seems disappointed when there's nothing in the post from him, and here's a cablegram that might be the very thing she's looking for, and she pays no attention to it. It certainly beats me.” “You know what puzzles me more than anything else? I've said it a hundred times. She never goes outside this here house, except in the garden, day or night.” “_Sh--h!_” Mrs Brood was descending the stairs, lightly, eagerly. In another instant she entered the room. “How nice the fire looks!” she cried. Never had she been more radiantly, seductively beautiful. “My cablegram, where is it?” The old men made a simultaneous dash for the long-neglected envelope. Mr Dawes succeeded in being the first to clutch it in his eager fingers. “Better read it, Mrs Brood,” he panted, thrusting it into her hand. “Maybe it's bad news.” She regarded him with one of her most mysterious smiles. “No, my friend, it is _not_ bad news. It is good news; it's from my husband.” “But you haven't read it,” gasped Mr Riggs. “Ah, but I know, just the same.” She deliberately slit the envelope with a slim finger and held it out to them. “Read it if you like.” They solemnly shook their heads, too amazed for words. She unfolded the sheet and sent her eyes swiftly over the printed contents. Then, to their further stupefaction, she pressed the bit of paper to her red lips. Her eyes flashed like diamonds.