“But we can easily find out if he is at the office. We can ring them up on the ’phone and ask.” “And be told that he is in conference. He will not have neglected to arrange for that.” “Then what shall I do?” “Wait,” said Mrs. Maplebury. “Wait and be watchful.” The shades of night were falling when Bradbury returned to his home. He was fatigued but jubilant. He had played forty-five holes in the society of his own sex. He had kept his head down and his eye on the ball. He had sung negro spirituals in the locker-room. “I trust, Bradbury,” said Mrs. Maplebury, “that you are not tired after your long day?” “A little,” said Bradbury. “Nothing to signify.” He turned radiantly to his wife. “Honey,” he said, “you remember the trouble I was having with my iron? Well, to-day--” He stopped aghast. Like every good husband it had always been his practice hitherto to bring his golfing troubles to his wife, and in many a cosy after-dinner chat he had confided to her the difficulty he was having in keeping his iron-shots straight. And he had only just stopped himself now from telling her that to-day he had been hitting ’em sweetly on the meat right down the middle. “Your iron?” “Er--ah--yes. I have large interests in Iron--as also in Steel, Jute, Woollen Fabrics, and Consolidated Peanuts. A gang has been trying to hammer down my stock. To-day I fixed them.” “You did, did you?” said Mrs. Maplebury. “I said I did,” retorted Bradbury, defiantly. “So did I. I said you did, did you?” “What do you mean, did you?” “Well, you did, didn’t you?” “Yes, I did.” “Exactly what I said. You did. Didn’t you?” “Yes, I did.” “Yes, you did!” said Mrs. Maplebury. Once again Bradbury felt vaguely uneasy. There was nothing in the actual dialogue which had just taken place to cause him alarm--indeed, considered purely as dialogue, it was bright and snappy and well calculated to make things gay about the home. But once more there had been a subtle something in his mother-in-law’s manner which had jarred upon him. He mumbled and went off to dress for dinner. “Ha!” said Mrs. Maplebury, as the door closed. * * * * * Such, then, was the position of affairs in the Fisher home. And now that I have arrived thus far in my story and have shown you this man systematically deceiving the woman he had vowed--at one of the most exclusive altars in New York--to love and cherish, you--if you are the sort of husband I hope you are--must be saying to yourself: “But what of Bradbury Fisher’s conscience?” Remorse, you feel, must long since have begun to gnaw at his vitals; and the thought suggests itself to you that surely by this time the pangs of self-reproach must have interfered seriously with his short game, even if not as yet sufficiently severe to affect his driving off the tee.