For that would be a terrific hurt. Madelaine would be true as steel to any man whom she had once promised to love, honor and cherish, come what might, afterward. She was that kind of woman. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER IX THE LAST STRAW I Nathan was facing the prospect of a dreary, rainy Sunday in a Wilkes-Barre hotel when that “turning-point” telegram arrived from Thorne. Since that day in Springfield when he had received a wire from Mildred concerning his child’s death, telegrams had not been without a flavor of calamity. Yet Thorne’s message on its face looked harmless enough. It read: DROP EVERYTHING COME HOME AT ONCE IMPORTANT MISSION FOR YOU. T. E. THORNE. An important mission for him! Nathan had a queer, telepathic intuition that something had happened, or was about to happen, that was to affect his career and perhaps his whole life vitally. It never left him. In fact, it grew upon him as he entered Vermont the next afternoon and his train drew into Paris about half-past seven o’clock. Usually Nat wired Milly when he was returning from his trips; his wife was piqued and exasperated when he “walked in on her” with no food ready in the house or when she was in the midst of neighborhood or family activities such as occupied her time while her husband was absent. But he had been so intent on making his trains that this time he had forgotten. When the man finally alighted on the depot platform Sunday evening, the place showed no signs of life; not even a Ford taxi met the train. So Nathan left his suit cases in the baggage room to be brought up next morning and started toward the business section afoot. He entered the Metropolitan Drug Store pay-station and called Ted Thorne. Ted was out for the evening and Nat promised to call him later. Then he called Milly to inform her that he had returned to town and would be up in a few minutes. Milly did not answer the ‘phone. “Probably down to her mother’s,” he said. So he stopped for a lunch at the Élite, lit a cigar and headed for Preston Hill at a leisurely pace. This was about half-past eight. It was one of those blowy nights in early March with the wind drying up the snow puddles and clouds scurrying across the face of a high white moon. Spring would be on New England in a handful of weeks. Already most of the snow had gone and only sickly, dirty patches, the last vestiges of winter drifts, were disclosed on the northern sides of walls and fences where the sunlight failed to touch them.