"Wait until you have mulled over it as I have, For the sake of my little girl her mother's reputation must be sacred." "I see. Then her misconduct is not known?" "It's a profound secret. That is, no one has seen her in the act, but it seems that all Newport except myself has taken it for granted and been whispering about it all summer. It began last summer, dolt that I was. But it's not known officially. That is, the newspapers have not got on to it." Paul made a movement of impatience and, rising, took a turn or two across the office. He stopped in front of Gordon and said: "Mind you, the temptation to kill him like a rat was not presented to me. I don't say I would have done it. I don't know what I would have done under all the circumstances--the gruesome circumstances--had we been face to face and he unarmed. He heard me and fled by the window. I was in the ante-room and stepped out on the balcony, and running round merely saw a disappearing figure. I did not know who he was, but I surmised; and on the spur of the moment I felt it was almost a hopeless shot. Who do you suppose he was?" "I have no idea, of course." "Guess." "It would be useless. I know no one at Newport except yourself, Paul." "Oh, yes, you do. Here's situation number two in the tragedy. It was my cousin Lucille's husband, Clarence Waldo." "For Heaven's sake!" Gordon ejaculated. "It can't be possible." Paul's laugh broke forth again. "Stunning, isn't it? No dramatist can improve on that. But I can. I know what you're thinking," he said, folding his arms, as he stood before Gordon with a saturnine glee, as though he were enjoying the other's consternation. "You're wondering what Mrs. Wilson will say?" Gordon shook his head. "It is terrible for her, of course. But I was thinking of your poor cousin." "Spare your pity in that quarter, man, until you know the truth. Situation number three! Lucille and her husband have fallen out, agreed to differ, ceased to love each other, never have loved each other, and are to be divorced as soon as circumstances will permit. Waldo is to marry my wife, and she--Lucille--has plighted her troth to Bradbury Nicholson, of New York, a son of the president of the Chemical Trust, of whom she is enamoured, and with whom, it seems, she has been carrying on clandestinely for months. Didn't I tell you I could improve on myself? The curtain now to red fire and the strains of Tschaikowsky!" Paul flung himself into his chair, and squared his jaw. For a moment he looked like his father. Gordon gazed at him with a brow of dismay. "How do you know this?"