He renewed the business of collecting the scattered papers. He would read no more poetry to-night, but an unsealed law envelope, without address, lay under the armchair. It was white and fresh, and the folds of the instrument inclosed were crisp with newness. He pulled it out: “MEMORANDUM OF AGREEMENT made this 6th Day of August, 188—, between AGNES WELLES ASHE of New York City, and RHINE, RHONE & CO., Publishers of New York City. “Said AGNES WELLES ASHE being the author and proprietor of a work entitled, ‘THE STORY OF WALTER KING, BY JOHN C. HART,’ in consideration of the covenants and stipulation, etc., etc., etc.” The shock cleared the lawyer’s head on the instant. He perused the document to signatures, seals, and witnesses, refolded and restored it to the envelope, put it back into the portfolio, and the portfolio into the escritoire, turned the key in the lock and took his stand upon the rug, his hands behind his back, his back to the fire. His face was purple, his eyes glared. “So much for marrying a literary woman! They are a _bad_ lot!” He spat it out viciously and a bitter, sounding oath after it. The door-bell rang loudly, attended by the sound of stamping feet upon the mat outside. The master of the house answered the summons. The family physician crowded in past him, pulling off his overcoat as he came. “How is she?” he demanded, without preamble. “She! Who?” “Mrs. Ashe! One of your maids telephoned for me at half-past twelve, from the nearest station—‘Come at once! Mrs. Ashe is dangerously ill.’ Can there be some mistake?” Mrs. Ames called him from the top of the stairs: “Come up quick, please, doctor. It takes two of us to hold her in bed.” The doctor rushed upstairs. Barton walked leisurely back into the library and shut the door. A woman who had sat here reading old MSS. and new contracts until she heard her husband’s latchkey in the outer door, then rushed off up a long flight of stairs to avoid him, in such frantic haste that she fell into a fit at the top, might come out of it without his help. He would never be fooled by her again, so help him God! Half an hour went by and he had not moved, although the stealthy rush of feet overhead bespoke excitement and yet caution on the part of the attendants, and twice a faint scream penetrated the ceiling. At last he reached out his hand for pen and paper and began a letter. “MY DEAR UNCLE: “I said to you, jestingly, thirteen months ago, that I would employ you to draw up articles of separation in the event of my needing——”