He had tossed the newspapers on the rare old Italian table in the centre of the room. After a few moments of complete abstraction, his dull, frowning gaze was raised from the floor to sweep the room,--which, for some strange, almost uncanny cause, seemed almost unfamiliar to him. And yet it was the same,--nothing had been changed. Only he had altered--his own perspective had undergone a vast, incomprehensible change. His eyes falling upon the papers, he took them up, one by one, and stared again at a certain headline in each,--a raw caption that fascinated him and hurt him like the cut of a knife. It did not occur to him until long afterwards, and then only in retrospective contemplation of events that filled the most important day in his life, that his wife was a long time in appearing. She came into the study at last, and, as was her unvarying custom, pressed her lips to his cheek. He noticed that her lips, always moist and soft and alive, were hot and dry and as dead as parchment. Before he spoke a word to her, he crossed the room and closed the door into the hall. She was staring at him in amazement as he turned toward her again. “What has happened, Davenport! You--you look so strange,--so--Oh, something dreadful has happened! Is it--is it Alfred! Tell me! For God's sake, don't--” “It isn't Alfred, my dear,” said he. There was a dull, hollow note in his voice,--a note that held to one key. “Where is Louise!” “In bed. She hasn't been well--” “We must manage somehow to break this thing gently to her. It might--there is no telling what it may do to her, Frieda.” She steadied herself against the table. Her face now was as white as his. It had been pale before; now it was livid. “What is it, Davenport?” He looked searchingly, anxiously into her eyes for a moment, and then said: “It will be a shock to you too, Frieda,--but I know you. You can take it like a soldier. Derrol Steele shot himself last night. He is dead. He--There, there, dearest! I shouldn't have blurted it out like--sit down here, Frieda! That's right! Poor old girl! Curse me for a blundering fool! I might have known it would be a dreadful shock to you. You were devoted to him. He--” “Tell me,--tell me everything, Davenport,” she broke in, her eyes fixed on his lips. She did not look into his eyes. He was leaning over her, clasping one of her hands,--a hand that suddenly became limp after the utmost rigidity. “Just a moment. Compose yourself. Pull yourself together, dear. It's--it's a cruel story--an incredible story. I would have staked my soul on Derrol Steele. I've known him since he was a little boy. If I had been asked to name the most honourable, the most loyal man in the--but, Frieda, I was wrong--I was deceived in him,--just as you were--and Louise. Louise! God, how this will crush that poor, innocent, loving--” “Tell me!” she insisted, her fingers tightening on his, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.