It was a matter of course, in view of the disparity in the ages of bride and bridegroom, that there should be no lack of croakers and prophets of the pessimistic school, who, one and all, took upon themselves to predict that such an union could be productive of nothing but discord and unhappiness, if not of evils still more dire. Time went on, however, and these and all, such vaticinations remained unfulfilled. Nowhere, to all seeming, could there have been found a more contented or cosily happy wedded pair. Mrs. Melray fell in with her husband's tastes and mode of life with an easy adaptability which was as delightful as was surprising in one so many years his junior. She made his friends her friends, and never seemed to long or care for any other society than that to which he chose to introduce her. She dressed soberly, but in excellent taste, and after a fashion which caused her to look half-a-dozen years older than her age. James Melray's first marriage had not been a happy one. His wife, a woman of an intractable temper, had been addicted to secret dram-drinking, and had thereby hastened her end. All the greater seemed the contrast between his life as it was now and as it had been then. In all Merehampton there was no happier man than he. We now come to the fatal evening of Friday, September 18. Twice every week, on the evenings of Tuesday and Friday, it had for years been Mr. Melray's custom to leave home as the clock was striking eight and make his way to the house of his friend Mr. Arbour, for the purpose of forming one at a sober rubber of whist. It was a custom which he had seen no reason for pretermitting after his second marriage, more especially in view of the fact that Mrs. Melray number two had never expressed the slightest desire that he should do so, and although she was thereby left alone for two or three hours on the evenings in question, she never failed to part from him with a kiss and a smile, nor greet him after the same fashion on his return. On the aforesaid 18th of September Mr. Melray set out for his friend's house as usual. His wife accompanied him downstairs as far as the entrance hall and helped him to induct himself into his overcoat, and then, before she let him go, and because the evening was chilly, she insisted on tying a white silk muffler round his throat as a further protection against the weather. Then came the customary parting kiss, after which Mrs. Melray stood in the open doorway for a half a minute, watching her husband's retreating form. Then she shut the door and hurried back upstairs to the cosy drawing-room. That evening Mr. Arbour and his friends waited in vain for the coming of James Melray. He never reached No. 5 Presbury Crescent.