“Whew!” he breathed in deep relief. “I had a nasty turn--thought perhaps I had lost that in the row. It contains all I own in the world!” He smiled. “It’s all right, though!” He glanced around him appreciatively. “But it wouldn’t buy the things you’ve got in this room, all the same. I admire your taste, if you’ll pardon my saying so, madam. I’m glad my wife is coming round--I’ll show her the sort of drawing-room we’re going to have some day, when we’ve made good!” His cheerful smile was heart-breaking. She felt as though she must jump up and run across to him, shrieking that it was his--all his! That he and she had bought it all together, every bit of it. And yet she could not stir--could only stare at him in a fascination that was dumb. Satterthwaite sat apparently unmoved, but his jaw was set hard. “Perhaps you’ll come in for a legacy some day,” he said, casually. His wife glanced at him, reading his thought. Of course, Jack would not do anything mean, would compensate him somehow! She was suddenly very grateful to him. The idea of a future anonymous restitution lightened her conscience a little. “It’s not likely!” said their visitor, indifferently. “We have neither of us any relatives--my wife and I. And I don’t care so long as I’ve got her. When we get some youngsters we shall be the happiest family going!” He smiled--and she thought of Dorothy, peacefully asleep in the other room. She shut out the picture with an effort. The door-bell rang, and, with an enormous relief, she sprang up to answer it. Anything to put an end to this torture! For one moment, in the hall, she hesitated. “Help me! help me, O God, to do what is right!” she prayed in dumb agony. And the question came up inexorably before her, vast, overpowering, not to be solved. Right!--what was right? She opened the door. An insignificant-looking little woman of the lower middle-class stood on the threshold, nervously agitated, her eyes wild with alarm. “My husband?” she asked, breathlessly. “Mr. Durham?” “He’s here,” replied Mrs. Satterthwaite, coldly. “This way.” She led her to the drawing-room and Harry Tremaine’s two wives entered together, the one beautiful, refined, exquisitely dressed--the other commonplace, dowdy, the cheaply attired product of a cheap city suburb, good-hearted vulgarity in every line of her. Mrs. Satterthwaite looked from the man who had been her husband to the woman who was now his wife--and her heart turned suddenly to stone. “Here is Mr. Durham,” she said. With something of a shock, Satterthwaite admired her consummate ease of manner. The little woman had rushed forward to her husband. “Oh, Ed, Ed!” she cried, ignoring Satterthwaite, who stood up politely. “What is the matter?--You’re not hurt?--Not badly?” “I’m all right, dear,” he said, embracing her. “I’ll tell you all about it presently. These kind people took me in and looked after me.” She turned to them.