Then he was alone listening as she greeted her husband in the hall. Harold Piper was thirty-six, nine years older than his wife. He was handsome--with marginal notes: these being eyes that were too close together, and a certain woodenness when his face was in repose. His attitude toward this Gedney matter was typical of all his attitudes. He had told Evylyn that he considered the subject closed and would never reproach her nor allude to it in any form; and he told himself that this was rather a big way of looking at it--that she was not a little impressed. Yet, like all men who are preoccupied with their own broadness, he was exceptionally narrow. He greeted Evylyn with emphasized cordiality this evening. "You'll have to hurry and dress, Harold," she said eagerly; "we're going to the Bronsons'." He nodded. "It doesn't take me long to dress, dear," and, his words trailing off, he walked on into the library. Evylyn's heart clattered loudly. "Harold---" she began, with a little catch in her voice, and followed him in. He was lighting a cigarette. "You'll have to hurry, Harold," she finished, standing in the doorway. "Why?" he asked a trifle impatiently; "you're not dressed yourself yet, Evie." He stretched out in a Morris chair and unfolded a newspaper. With a sinking sensation Evylyn saw that this meant at least ten minutes--and Gedney was standing breathless in the next room. Supposing Harold decided that before he went upstairs he wanted a drink from the decanter on the sideboard. Then it occurred to her to forestall this contingency by bringing him the decanter and a glass. She dreaded calling his attention to the dining-room in any way, but she couldn't risk the other chance. But at the same moment Harold rose and, throwing his paper down, came toward her. "Evie, dear," he said, bending and putting his arms about her, "I hope you're not thinking about last night---" She moved close to him, trembling. "I know," he continued, "it was just an imprudent friendship on your part. We all make mistakes." Evylyn hardly heard him. She was wondering if by sheer clinging to him she could draw him out and up the stairs. She thought of playing sick, asking to be carried up--unfortunately she knew he would lay her on the couch and bring her whiskey. Suddenly her nervous tension moved up a last impossible notch. She had heard a very faint but quite unmistakable creak from the floor of the dining room. Fred was trying to get out the back way. Then her heart took a flying leap as a hollow ringing note like a gong echoed and re-echoed through the house. Gedney's arm had struck the big cut-glass bowl. "What's that!" cried Harold. "Who's there?"