At half-past six o'clock from Wall Street, Jack Lightbody let himself
into his apartment, called his wife by name, and received no answer.
"Hello, that's funny," he thought, and, ringing, asked of the maid, "Did
Mrs. Lightbody go out?"
"About an hour ago, sir."
"That's odd. Did she leave any message?"
"No, sir."
"That's not like her. I wonder what's happened."
At this moment his eye fell on an open hat-box of mammoth proportions,
overshadowing a thin table in the living-room.
"When did that come?"
"About four o'clock, sir."
He went in, peeping into the empty box with a smile of satisfaction and
understanding.
"That's it, she's rushed off to show it to some one," he said, with a
half vindictive look toward the box. "Well, it cost $175, and I don't
get my winter suit; but I get a little peace."
He went to his room, rebelliously preparing to dress for the dinner and
theater to which he had been commanded.
"By George, if I came back late, wouldn't I catch it?" he said with some
irritation, slipping into his evening clothes and looking critically at
his rather subdued reflection in the glass. "Jim tells me I'm getting in
a rut, middle-aged, showing the wear. Perhaps." He rubbed his hand over
the wrinkled cheek and frowned. "I have gone off a bit--sedentary
life--six years. It does settle you. Hello! quarter of seven. Very
strange!"
He slipped into a lilac dressing-gown which had been thrust upon him on
his last birthday and wandered uneasily back into the dining-room.
"Why doesn't she telephone?" he thought; "it's her own party, one of
those infernal problem plays I abhor. I didn't want to go."
The door opened and the maid entered. On the tray was a letter.
"For me?" he said, surprised. "By messenger?"
"Yes, sir."
He signed the slip, glancing at the envelope. It was in his wife's
handwriting.
"Margaret!" he said suddenly.
"Yes, sir."
"The boy's waiting for an answer, isn't he?"
"No, sir."
He stood a moment in blank uneasiness, until, suddenly aware that she
was waiting, he dismissed her with a curt:
"Oh, very well."
Then he remained by the table, looking at the envelope which he did not
open, hearing the sound of the closing outer door and the passing of the
maid down the hall.
"Why didn't she telephone?" he said aloud slowly.
He looked at the letter again. He had made no mistake. It was from his
wife.
"If she's gone off again on some whim," he said angrily, "by George, I
won't stand for it."
Then carelessly inserting a finger, he broke the cover and glanced
hastily down the letter:
My dear Jackie:
When you have read this I shall have left you forever. Forget me and
try to forgive. In the six years we have lived together, you have
always been kind to me. But, Jack, there is something we cannot give
or take away, and because some one has come who has won that, I am
leaving you. I'm sorry, Jackie, I'm sorry.
Irene.
When he had read this once in unbelief, he read it immediately again,
approaching the lamp, laying it on the table and pressing his fists
against his temple, to concentrate all his mind.
"It's a joke," he said, speaking aloud.
He rose, stumbling a little and aiding himself with his arm, leaning
against the wall, went into her room, and opened the drawer where her
jewel case should be. It was gone.
"Then it's true," he said solemnly. "It's ended. What am I to do?"
He went to her wardrobe, looking at the vacant hooks, repeating:
"What am I to do?"
He went slowly back to the living-room to the desk by the lamp, where
the hateful thing stared up at him.
"What am I to do?"
All at once he struck the desk with his fist and a cry burst from him:
"Dishonored--I'm dishonored!"
His head flushed hot, his breath came in short, panting rage. He struck
the letter again and again, and then suddenly, frantically, began to
rush back and forth, repeating:
"Dishonored--dishonored!"
All at once a moment of clarity came to him with a chill of ice. He
stopped, went to the telephone and called up the Racquet Club, saying:
"Mr. De Gollyer to the 'phone."
Then he looked at his hand and found he was still clutching a forgotten
hair brush. With a cry at the grotesqueness of the thing, he flung it
from him, watching it go skipping over the polished floor. The voice of
De Gollyer called him.
"Is that you, Jim?" he said, steadying himself. "Come--come to me at
once--quick!"
He could have said no more. He dropped the receiver, overturning the
stand, and began again his caged pacing of the floor.
Ten minutes later De Gollyer nervously slipped into the room. He was a
quick, instinctive ferret of a man, one to whose eyes the hidden life of
the city held no mysteries; who understood equally the shadows that
glide on the street and the masks that pass in luxurious carriages. In
one glance he had caught the disorder in the room and the agitation in
his friend. He advanced a step, balanced his hat on the desk, perceived
the crumpled letter, and, clearing his throat, drew back, frowning and
alert, correctly prepared for any situation.
Lightbody, without seeming to perceive his arrival, continued his blind
traveling, pressing his fists from time to time against his throat to
choke back the excess of emotions which, in the last minutes, had dazed
his perceptions and left him inertly struggling against a shapeless
pain. All at once he stopped, flung out his arms and cried:
"She's gone!"
De Gollyer did not on the word seize the situation.
"Gone! Who's gone?" he said with a nervous, jerky fixing of his head,
while his glance immediately sought the vista through the door to assure
himself that no third person was present.
But Lightbody, unconscious of everything but his own utter grief, was
threshing back and forth, repeating mechanically, with increasing
_staccato_:
"Gone, gone!"
"Who? Where?"
With a sudden movement, De Gollyer caught his friend by the shoulder and
faced him about as a naughty child, exclaiming: "Here, I say, old chap,
brace up! Throw back your shoulders--take a long breath!"
With a violent wrench, Lightbody twisted himself free, while one hand
flung appealingly back, begged for time to master the emotion which
burst forth in the cry:
"Gone--forever!"
"By Jove!" said De Gollyer, suddenly enlightened, and through his mind
flashed the thought--"There's been an accident--something fatal.
Tough--devilish tough."
He cast a furtive glance toward the bedrooms and then an alarmed one
toward his friend, standing in the embrasure of the windows, pressing
his forehead against the panes.
Suddenly Lightbody turned and, going abruptly to the desk, leaned
heavily on one arm, raising the letter in two vain efforts. A spasm of
pain crossed his lips, which alone could not be controlled. He turned
his head hastily, half offering, half dropping the letter, and
wheeling, went to an armchair, where he collapsed, repeating
inarticulately:
"Forever!"
"Who? What? Who's gone?" exclaimed De Gollyer, bewildered by the
appearance of a letter. "Good heavens, dear boy, what has happened?
Who's gone?"
Then Lightbody, by an immense effort, answered:
"Irene--my wife!"
And with a rapid motion he covered his eyes, digging his fingers into
his flesh.
De Gollyer, pouncing upon the letter, read: