I went into the house and--well, yes, I might as well admit it--sat at the window where I could command a clear view of the parlor opposite. This affair was getting to be personal with me. And then I think a fellow ought to show an interest in anything that is close to his wife's sympathies. So while she watched on the porch, I watched from the window. He didn't come that night, and he didn't come the next night. But while I was watching--not obtrusively, you know, but just sympathetically--a messenger boy ran up the steps. The door opened halfway and he delivered a message and waited a moment, and then left, dashing up street on his wheel. I was pondering, when our telephone bell rang. I answered. A sweet young voice called: "Exchange, give me Mount Vernon 1,000, please--the Hotel Belvedere." I broke in. "Hello! Hello! You're on a busy wire! Exchange----" "Oh, please, sir, please get off the line and let me have it! This is very important!" I mumbled something and hung up the receiver. Then I went back to my window and gazed across the street again. The hall light was turned on--the first time I had noticed it alone. The pale blind was down, but the light--why, a Silhouette at the telephone! I ran to the kitchen, where my wife was messing with pots and pans. "I've got it, I've got it!" I screamed, waltzing her around. "You act like it," she said, laughing and disengaging herself. "What have you got?" "She's calling him up at the Belvedere! Telegram--telephone in hall--light--Silhouette--go look!" She ran all the way to the window, and then I had to sit down and tell her just how I knew it must be the Man Silhouette. All the circumstances were too plain. There was no doubt of it. Her intuition backed up my judgment. We sat on the porch until after ten, and then a closed taxi was driven rapidly to the little walk. A man, bundled in a big coat, handed the chauffeur something and dismissed him, and hurried up to the porch. The door swung open without summons and he entered. Ten minutes later my wife said: "I wonder if the belt has slipped off down at the power house?" I grunted. "My dear," I said, "if you had quarreled and if you were making up on a moonlight night, would you bother about wasting kilowatts of electricity?" She wrinkled her forehead. "But the moonlight is on the outside of the house." "That's just where you're mistaken," I ventured. "It _was_ all outside, but they're getting all they need of it through the cracks on the sides of the curtain." She sighed. "And moreover," I added, "I'm going to bed." And I did; and there were no Silhouettes. At midnight or worse my wife said: "I don't know much else about that man, but I know one thing." "What's that?" I asked. "He's stingy," was her reply; and I'll admit, myself, that he might have turned up the lights just a little while.