III Ted Thorne, in the library of his home at ten-thirty that night, beheld the face of his young salesman with anxiety. “For heaven’s sake, Nat, what’s the matter? Sick?” “No, just a bit upset, that’s all, Ted. You wired me to come home in a hurry and I forgot to telegraph my wife. I reached the house to find——” “Yes?” “That she loved that Plumb fellow—the steam-fitter that works for Holcomb.” “You caught them?” “Yes. I caught them!” Nathan stretched his legs and drew a long sigh. His lips were very firm. His self-control was admirable. “And what’s the answer?” demanded Thorne. “She’s gone with Plumb. I told her to go.” “You told her to go! My God! I’d have got a gun and plugged that steam-fitter so full of holes——” “The man who’ll so lower himself as to run amuck and shoot anybody up for the sake of a woman who doesn’t love him enough to be true to him deserves exactly what the jury hands him in case they fail to disagree!” “But there’s such a thing as the Unwritten Law and——” “Unwritten fiddlesticks! Let’s get down to business. What’s this important mission you want to send me on?” “Suppose we smoke,” suggested Ted weakly. He was too upset at the moment to discuss business. When the cigars had been lighted he sat with his chin deep in his chest for a time and then said frankly, “You’ve had a sort of a rotten experience with women, haven’t you, Nat? Oh, I know all about it! Most of the town does. Your mother—that Gardner girl—now your wife—say, Nat, the marvel to me is, that regardless of it all, there doesn’t seem to be the least shred of cynicism in your whole make-up. I’ve got to hand it to you, Nat. I don’t understand it.”