There was no chair car on the three forty-five and Chapman had to travel in the common coach, Willitts and the luggage crowded into the seat behind him. It was an hour and a half run to the Pennsylvania Station and he spent the time thinking over the situation and arranging his future. His business—Long Island real estate—had been allowed to go to the dogs. He would have to get busy in earnest, and, with his friends and large acquaintance to throw things in his way, he could put it on a paying basis. His expenses would have to be cut down to the bone. He’d give up his chambers, a suite in a bachelor apartment—Willitts could find him a cheap room somewhere—and of course he’d give up Willitts. That had been already arranged and the faithful soul had asked leave to help him in the move and stay with him till a new job was found. He would keep his car—it would be necessary in his business—and could be stored in the garage at Cedar Brook where he’d spend his week-ends with the Hartleys. Joe Hartley was one of his best friends, knew all about his marriage and had counseled a separation more than a year ago. He’d probably spend a good deal of his time at Cedar Brook, it was a growing place; unfortunate that it should be the next station after Berkeley, but it could not be helped. He was bound to run into the Janney outfit and he’d have to get used to it. The train was entering the tunnel when he gave Willitts his instructions—go to the apartment and pack up, then see about a room. He himself would look up some places he knew of, and if he found anything suitable he’d come back to the apartment and the things could be moved to-morrow. They separated in the depot, Willitts and the luggage in a taxi, Chapman on foot. But that part of the city to which he took his way, dingy, unkempt, remote from the section where his kind dwelt, was not a place where Chapman Price, fallen from his high estate as he was, would have chosen to house himself. CHAPTER II—MISS MAITLAND GETS A LETTER It was Thursday morning, three days after her husband’s departure, and Suzanne was sitting in the window seat of her room looking across the green distances to where the roof of Dick Ferguson’s place, Council Oaks, rose above the tree tops. Council Oaks adjoined Grasslands, there was a short cut which connected them—a path through the woods. Before Mrs. Janney bought Grasslands the path had become moss-grown, almost obliterated. Then when she took possession the two households wore it bare again. The servants found it shortened the walk from kitchen to kitchen; Mr. Janney often footed its green windings; Dick Ferguson’s father had been one of his cronies, and Dick Ferguson himself was the most constant traveler of them all.