But if she was due back next Friday, the scheme fell through and exposure was inevitable. He wondered dully what had caused her change of plans, and came to the conclusion that some feminine sixth sense must have warned her of peril threatening Blizzard. With a good deal of peevishness he wished that Providence had never endowed women with this sixth sense. A woman with merely five took quite enough handling. “Sweet suffering soup-spoons!” groaned Bradbury. “Sir?” said Blizzard. “Nothing,” said Bradbury. “Very good, sir,” said Blizzard. * * * * * For a man with anything on his mind, any little trouble calculated to affect the _joie de vivre_, there are few spots less cheering than the Customs sheds of New York. Draughts whistle dismally there--now to, now fro. Strange noises are heard. Customs officials chew gum and lurk grimly in the shadows, like tigers awaiting the luncheon-gong. It is not surprising that Bradbury’s spirits, low when he reached the place, should have sunk to zero long before the gangplank was lowered and the passengers began to stream down it. His wife was among the first to land. How beautiful she looked, thought Bradbury, as he watched her. And, alas, how intimidating. His tastes had always lain in the direction of spirited women. His first wife had been spirited. So had his second, third and fourth. And the one at the moment holding office was perhaps the most spirited of the whole platoon. For one long instant, as he went to meet her, Bradbury Fisher was conscious of a regret that he had not married one of those meek, mild girls who suffer uncomplainingly at their husband’s hands in the more hectic type of feminine novel. What he felt he could have done with at the moment was the sort of wife who thinks herself dashed lucky if the other half of the sketch does not drag her round the billiard-room by her hair, kicking her the while with spiked shoes. Three conversational openings presented themselves to him as he approached her. “Darling, there is something I want to tell you--” “Dearest, I have a small confession to make--” “Sweetheart, I don’t know if by any chance you remember Blizzard, our butler. Well, it’s like this--” But, in the event, it was she who spoke first. “Oh, Bradbury,” she cried, rushing into his arms, “I’ve done the most awful thing, and you must try to forgive me!” Bradbury blinked. He had never seen her in this strange mood before. As she clung to him, she seemed timid, fluttering, and--although a woman who weighed a full hundred and fifty-seven pounds--almost fragile. “What is it?” he inquired, tenderly. “Has somebody stolen your jewels?” “No, no.” “Have you been losing money at bridge?” “No, no. Worse than that.” Bradbury started. “You didn’t sing ‘My Little Grey Home in the West’ at the ship’s concert?” he demanded, eyeing her closely. “No, no! Ah, how can I tell you? Bradbury, look! You see that man over there?”