May had come and gone; now it was June again and past the middle of the month; to be precise it was the morning of Tuesday the nineteenth. I had been a _sub rosa_ subscriber to the local Stockbridge paper, probably from the secret hope of finding an occasional paragraph about Betty and her doings, even if it were but the bare mention of her name. The paper habitually reached me on Monday, but this was Tuesday and it had but just arrived; some delay in the mails, I dare say. Upon unfolding it I turned at once to the column of personalities, and saw that among the recent arrivals at the Red Lion Inn was the name of Mr. Chalmers Warriner, of Calverton, Maryland. Have you ever suffered the unutterable pangs of jealousy, you who read these words? If so there is no need for me to picture them; if not, there is no possible medium through which I could make them even dimly comprehensible. But that day I died a thousand deaths. Manifestly Warriner had come to Stockbridge for a purpose, and it was unthinkable that he should have done so without a direct invitation from my wife. So Betty had made up her mind; she had taken an irrevocable step, and the die had been finally cast. What was I to do? Twice I ordered out the motor, intent upon taking the first train to the North, and as often I sent it back. I had just sense enough left to realize that I must wait for something more definite; that much I owed to the woman who was the mother of my child; perhaps the post would bring me a letter of enlightenment. But when the ten o'clock delivery came over from Calverton I found myself as completely in the dark as ever. Betty's letter was full of Hilda Powers, who had arrived on Saturday for a stay of ten days. What did I care about Hilda Powers! And then in a postcript: "Chalmers Warriner is registered at the Red Lion, and I suppose that we shall see him by this afternoon at the latest." Now all the authorities agree that the significant part of a woman's letter is the postscript. Fortunately, a matter of pressing importance had been brought to my attention. Zack reported that he had noticed, from the terrace, an inward bulge of one of the stained glass windows of the library. He thought that the leading might have become weakened, and if so, an immediate repair would be necessary. To determine the question he proposed that we should make an examination from the inside of the room. I give you my word of honor that, for the time being, my promise to Betty had gone clean out of my head. All I could think of was that something of the dignity and beauty of the house--my house--was in jeopardy; and I, the Master of the "Hundred," must look to it ere irremediable damage were done. I got the key from my writing desk and, together with Zack, hurried along the corridor, unlocked the door, and entered the well-remembered room.