THE four weeks had wound away. I shall not detain the reader with a history of them. The log-book of a prosperous voyage is apt to be dull literature. They were four weeks of delightful progress toward a much-desired goal—four weeks of unmitigated happiness. The course of true love ran smooth. Time flew. Looking forward, to be sure, Arthur thought the hoped-for day would never come. But looking backward from the eve of it, he was compelled to wonder whither the time had sped.

On Thursday, the 24th of July, in the office of Assistant-district-attorney Romer, were seated Arthur, Peixada, and Mr. Romer himself. Arthur held an open letter in his hand. The letter, written in a heavy, English chirography, was signed with considerable flourish, “Reginald Graham.” Arthur had just finished reading it aloud. Said he, folding it up and putting it into his pocket, “So all trace of her is lost. We are back at the point we started from.”

Said Peixada, “Well, we shall simply be obliged to adopt the plan that I suggested in the first place—advertise.”

Assented Romer, “Yes, an advertisement is our last hope.”

“A forlorn one. She would never answer it,” croaked Arthur.

“That depends,” said Romer.

“Upon what?”

“Upon the adroitness with which the advertisement is framed.”

“Well, for instance? Give us a sample.”

“Let me think,” said Romer. After a moment’s reflection, “How would this answer?” And he applied pen to paper. Presently he submitted the paper for inspection to his companions. Its contents were as follows:

“Peixada.—If Mrs. Judith Peixada, nÉe Karon, widow of Bernard Peixada, Esquire, late of the city of New York, deceased, and formerly administratrix of the goods, chattels, and credits of said decedent, will communicate either personally or by letter with her brother-in-law, Benjamin Peixada, No.——-Reade Street, New York, she will learn something affecting the interests of her estate greatly to her advantage.”

“That, I think,” said Romer, “ought to be inserted in the principal newspapers of America, England, France, and Germany.”

“That’s what I call first-rate,” was Peixada’s comment.

Arthur held his peace.

“Well,” demanded Romer, “how does it strike you?”

Arthur deliberated; at length said, “Candidly, Romer, do you regard that as altogether square and above-board?”

“Why not? It’s a decoy. The use of decoys in dealing with criminals—this woman is a criminal, mind you; a murderess and practically a thief as well—the use of decoys in such cases is justified by a hundred precedents.”

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Peixada. “Nothing’s the matter with me,” retorted Arthur, a bit sharply; “but I must say, I think such a proceeding as this is pretty low.”

“Oh, come; no, you don’t,” urged Romer.

“I do. And what’s more, I won’t lend myself to it. If that advertisement appears in the papers, Mr. Peixada will have to retain another man in my place.”

“But, goodness alive, it’s our last resort. Would you rather have the whole business fall through? Be reasonable. Why, it’s a ruse the daintiest men at the bar wouldn’t stick at.”

“Perhaps they wouldn’t; but I do.”

“Well, what else is there to be done?”

“And besides,” said Arthur, not heeding Romer’s question, “you make a great mistake in fancying that she would be deceived by it. If that woman is any thing, she’s shrewd. She’s far too shrewd to bite when the hook’s in sight.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean she’d sniff danger at once—divine that it is—what you have called it—a decoy. What under the sun could her brother-in-law have to communicate that would be to her advantage?”

“All right,” said Romer, shrugging his shoulders; “suggest a more promising move, and I’ll be with you.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Arthur, “I’m not too squeamish. I won’t connive at downright falsehood; but I’m willing to compromise. It’s a bitter pill to swallow—it goes against the grain—but I’ll consent to something like this. Let me take your pen.”

Arthur scratched off a line or two.

“Here,” he said.

“Peixada.—If Mrs. Judith Peixada, nÉe Karon, widow of Bernard Peixada, Esquire, deceased, will communicate with her brother-in-law, Benjamin Peixada, No.—— Reade Street, New York, she will confer a favor,“ was what Arthur had written.

“This,” he added verbally, “will be quite as likely to fetch her as the other. Its very frankness will disarm suspicion. Besides, it’s not such an out-and-out piece of treachery.”

“What do you think, Mr. Peixada?” inquired Romer.

“Oh, I think she’d sooner cut her thumbs off than do me a favor. But I leave the decision with you lawyers.”

“I may as well repeat,” volunteered Arthur, “that in the event of your employing the form Mr. Romer drew, I shall withdraw from the case.”

“Well,” said Romer, “I’m not sure Ripley isn’t right. At any rate, no harm giving his way a trial. If it should fail to attract our game, we can use sweeter bait later on. Who’ll see to its insertion?”

“I shall have to beg you to do that,” said Arthur, “because to-morrow I’m going out of town—to stay about a fortnight. I shall be on deck again two weeks from Monday—August 11th. Meanwhile, here’s my country address. Telegraph me, if any thing turns up.”

Telling the story of his morning’s work to Hetzel, he concluded thus, “I suppose it was a legitimate enough stratagem—one that few lawyers would stop at—but, all the same, I feel like a sneak. I should like to kick myself.”

Hetzel responded, cheeringly, “You’ve made your own bed, and now you’ve got to lie in it. You ought to have observed these little drawbacks to the beauty of Themis, before you dedicated yourself to her service.”

Next day in Mrs. Hart’s parlor, Arthur Ripley and Ruth Lehmyl were married. Besides themselves and the clergyman who tied the knot, the only persons present were Arthur’s mother, Mrs. Hart, Julian Hetzel, and a certain Mr. Arthur Flint.

This last named gentleman was Arthur’s godfather, and had been a classmate of Arthur’s father at Yale college. He was blessed with a wife, a couple of married daughters, and a swarm of grandchildren of both sexes; despite which, he had always taken a more than godfatherly interest in his namesake. For whatever business Arthur had to do, prior to his connection with Peixada, he was indebted to Mr. Flint. It was but natural, therefore, that he should have apprised Mr. Flint of his matrimonial projects as soon as they were distinctly formed. He had visited him one day at his office, and asked him to attend the wedding.

“The 25th of July?” cried Mr. Flint. “At such short notice? And my wife and Sue and Nellie away in Europe! It’s a pity I can’t call them home by the next steamer, to wish you joy. It’ll break their hearts not to be present at your marriage. However—however, where are you going on your wedding-journey?”

“I haven’t made up my mind. We were thinking of some place on the New Jersey coast.”

“The New Jersey coast is all sand and glare. It would spoil your bride’s complexion. I’ll tell you what you’d better do. You’d better go and pass your honeymoon at my cottage in New Hampshire—Beacon Rock. It’s shut up and doing no one any good—consequence of my wife’s trip to Europe. Say the word, and I’ll wire Perkins—my general factotum there—to open and air the house, start fires, and be ready to welcome you with a warm dinner on the 26th.”

“You’re too kind. I don’t know what to say,”

“Then say nothing. I’ll take yes for granted. You’ll find Beacon Rock just the place for a month’s billing and cooing. Eastward, the multitudinous sea; westward, the hardy New England landscape; and all around you, the sweetest air it will ever be your luck to breathe. Look here.”

Mr. Flint opened a drawer of his desk and extracted a pile of photographs.

“Here’s Beacon Rock taken from every available point of view. Here are some glimpses of the interior,” he said.

Divided between delight and gratitude, Arthur could only stammer forth broken phrases.

“Oh, by the way, what’s her address?” demanded Mr. Flint, as Arthur was on the point of bidding him good-by.

“I thought I had told you. You’ll be sure to call soon, won’t you? No. 46 Beekman Place.”

“Now, mum’s the word,” proceeded Mr. Flint.

“I don’t want you to breathe a syllable of this business to your sweetheart. Lead her to suppose that you’re going to some Purgatorial summer hotel; and then enjoy her surprise when she spies Beacon Rock. Oh, yes, I’ll call and pay her my respects—likely enough some night this week. Good-by. God bless you.”

Mr. Flint called, pursuant to his promise. On the stoop, as he was leaving, he clapped Arthur upon the shoulder, and cried, “By George, my boy, your Jewess is a jewel!”

Three days later came a paper parcel, addressed to Mrs. Lehmyl. It contained a small purple velvet box. To the outside of the box was attached a card, bearing the laconic device, “Sparks from a Flint.” Inside, upon a cushion of lavender silk lay a gold breastpin, from the center of which a cluster of wondrous diamonds shot prismatic rays. It was the sole bit of jewelry that adorned Ruth’s wedding-gown.

“Immediately after the ceremony,” says Hetzel, in a letter written at the time, “they got into a hack, and were driven to the Fall River boat. We, who were left behind, crossed the street and assembled upon the loggia. There we waited till the Bristol hove in sight down the river. Then, until it had disappeared behind Blackwell’s Island, there was much waving of handkerchiefs between the travelers—whom we could make out quite clearly, leaning against the rail—and us poor stay-at-homes. Afterward, Mrs. Ripley and Mrs. Hart adapted their handkerchiefs to other purposes.”

A week elapsed before the bride and groom were heard from. Eventually Hetzel got a voluminous missive. Portions of it read thus:

“In Boston, as our train didn’t leave till noon, we sought the Decorative Art Rooms, and spent an hour or so coveting the pretty things that they are full of. At the depot I had a slight unpleasantness with the potentate from whom I bought our tickets—(confound the insolence of these railroad officials! Why doesn’t some ingenious Yankee contrive an automaton by which they may be superseded?)—but despite it, we got started comfortably enough, and were set down at Portsmouth promptly at three o’clock. She enjoyed the drive in an open carriage through the quaint old New England town immensely; but when we had reached the open country, and were being whisked over bridges, down leafy lanes, across rugged pasture lands, on our way to New Castle, her pleasure knew no bounds. There is something peculiarly refreshing in this keen New Hampshire air, compounded as it is of pine odors and the smell of the sea, and something equally refreshing in this homely New Hampshire landscape, with its thorns and thistles growing alongside daisies and wild roses.

’The locust dinned amid the trees;

The fields were high with corn,’

as we spun onward behind the horses’ hoofs. Now and then, much to her consternation, a brilliant striped snake darted from the foot-path into the bushes.... I had given her to believe, you know, that our destination was the * * * hotel, a monstrous barracks of an establishment, perched on the top of a hill in this neighborhood; and when we clattered past it without stopping, she was altogether mystified. I parried her questions successfully, however; and at the end of another half mile Beacon Rock rose before us.... For a while we did—could do-nothing but race around the outside of the house, and attempt by eloquent attitudes, frantic gestures, ecstatic monosyllables, to express something of the admiration which it inspired. Mr. Flint had shown me photographs of the cottage before I left New York; but he had shown me no photographs of the earth, sea, and sky by which it is surrounded—and that is its superlative merit. It falls in perfectly with the nature round about. It is indigenous—as thoroughly so as the seaweed, the stone walls, the apple trees. It looks as though it might have grown out of the soil: or as if the waters, in a mood of titanic playfulness, had cast it up and left it where it stands upon the shore. Fancy a square tower, built of untrimmed stone, fifty feet in height and twenty in diameter, springing straight up from a bare granite ledge— which, in its turn, sprouts from a grassy lawn, which, in its turn, slopes gradually down to the rocks at the sea’s edge. This solemn, sturdy tower is pierced at its base by divers sinister looking portholes, which suggest cannon and ambushed warriors, but which, in point of fact, perform no more bellicose a function than that of admitting daylight into the cellar. Above these there are deep-set windows, through which the sun pours merrily all day long. I am seated at one of them, writing, now. . . . The tower faces the sea, and defies it. Behind the tower, and sheltered by it, nestles the cottage proper, a most picturesque, gabled, rambling structure of wood, painted terra cotta red... . . I don’t know how long we stood around outside. Finally, Mr. Perkins, a native who, aided by his wife, cooks and ’chores’ for us, suggested the propriety of entering. We entered; and if the exterior had charmed us, the interior simply carried us away. I shall not attempt an itemized description of it, because probably I shouldn’t be able to make the picture vivid enough to be worth your while. But imagine the extreme of aestheticism combined with the extreme of comfort, and you will get a rough notion of our environment. There are broad, open fire places, deep chimney corners, luxurious Turkey rugs, antique chairs and tables, beautiful pictures, interesting books—though we don’t read them—and every thing else a fellow’s heart could desire. There is no piano—the sea air would make short work of one—but I have hired a guitar from a Portsmouth music dealer, and she accompanies her songs on this.... Our mode of existence has been a perpetual dolce far niente, diversified by occasional strolls about the country—to Fort Constitution, a ruin of 1812—to the hotel, where a capital orchestra dispenses music every afternoon—or simply across the meadows, without an objective point. We can sight several light-houses from the tower windows; and a mile out at sea, in everlasting restlessness, floats a deep-voiced, melancholy bell-buoy, which recalls all the weird creeping of the flesh we had in reading the shipwreck in L’homme qui rit.. . . Of course we have written a glowing letter of thanks to Mr. Flint. She, I forgot to tell you, could not at first believe her senses—believe that this little earthly paradise was meant for our occupation. When at last the truth was borne in upon her, you ought to have witnessed her delight.... Oh, Julian, old boy, you can’t form the least conception of the great, radiant joy that fills my heart. I am really half afraid that it’s a dream from which I shall presently wake up. I don’t dare to verify it by pinching myself, lest that misfortune might indeed befall me. My happiness is so much in excess of other men’s, I don’t feel that I deserve it; and sometimes I am tormented by a morbid dread that it may not last. Just think, she is actually my wife! Ah, how my heart leaps, when I say that to myself, and realize all that it means!.... I have tried to put business quite out of my mind; but now and then it recurs to me, despite myself. I feel more and more uncomfortable about that advertisement. I have no doubt the woman richly deserves the worst that can happen to her, and all that, but nevertheless I can’t get rid of a deucedly unpleasant qualm of conscience, when I think of the trap I have helped to set for her. Between ourselves, I derive some consolation from the thought that the chances are ninety-nine in a hundred that she will decline to nibble at our bait.... Unless I telegraph to the contrary, expect us to breakfast with you to-morrow week—Saturday, August 9th.”

Hetzel carried his letter across the street, and gave it to Mrs. Hart. She, not to be outdone, read aloud fragments of one which she had received from Ruth by the same mail. Among the paragraphs in the latter which she suppressed was this:

“I have offered twice to tell him the whole story. I very much want to do so—to have it off my mind. It doesn’t seem right that I should keep it secret; and he is so kind and tender, I feel that I could bring myself to tell him every thing. But with characteristic generosity, he declines to listen—bids me keep my secret as a proof of his confidence in me. Perhaps, then, it will be just as well for me to wait till we get back to town. Sooner or later—and the sooner, the better—I shall insist upon his allowing me to speak. A regret grows upon me daily that I did not insist upon that before we were married. Though I know so well that he loves me, my heart stands still when I stop to think, ’How may he feel towards me when he knows it all?’ or, ’Suppose before I have explained it to him, he should hear it from somebody else?’ Oh, it is not possible that he will cease to care for me, is it? I wish I could go to him this instant, and tell him about it, and then for good and all know my fate. Why did I wait till we were married? I could not bear to have him change in his feelings toward me now. Oh, I wish this miserable secret were off my mind—it tortures me with such terrifying doubts. But perhaps I had best not interrupt the happiness of his holiday by introducing a subject which he appears anxious to avoid. Do you agree with me? I say, I wish I could go, and tell it to him; and yet when the time comes for doing so, I am afraid my tongue will cleave to the roof of my mouth. If it should destroy his love for me! make him despise me! If for a single moment, as I was speaking, he should recoil from me!—withdraw his hand from mine! Oh, God, why can not the past be blotted out? I must speak to him before any body else can do so. If some one of his acquaintances should recognize me, and tell him, what might he not do? He thinks he would not care. He says no matter what the past has been, it is totally indifferent to him. But perhaps he would not feel that way if he really knew it. God bless him and keep him from all pain!”

Saturday morning, surely enough, the truants came home, and took up their quarters at Mrs. Hart’s, where for the present they were to remain. They hoped to set up a modest establishment of their own in the spring.

Late Monday forenoon Arthur screwed his courage to the sticking place, and tore himself away from his wife’s side. Reading the newspapers on his way down town, he had the satisfaction of seeing himself in print. The Peixada advertisement occupied a conspicuous position. He went straight to his office, where he found a number of letters waiting for him. These he disposed of as speedily as might be; and then he sallied forth to call upon Mr. Flint. He got back at about halfpast two o’clock. Less than five minutes later, his office-boy stuck his head through the doorway, and announced, “A gentleman to see you.”

“Show him in.”

The gentleman appeared. The gentleman wore the garb of a porter. “I come from Mr. Peixada, sir, with a note,” he explained.

Arthur took the note and broke it open. The gum on the envelope was still damp.

The note bore evidence of having been dashed off in haste. Here it is:

“Office of B. Peixada & Co.,

“No.———Reade Street,

“New York, Aug. 11, 1884.

“Dear Sir:

“If you are in town, (and to-day was the day fixed for your return), please come right over here at your earliest convenience. Mrs. P. is in my private office! I am keeping her till your arrival.

“Yours truly,

“B. Peixada.”

Arthur stood still, his eyes glued upon this sheet of paper, long enough to have read it through a dozen times.

“Any answer?” Mr. Peixada’s envoy at last demanded.

“Oh—of course—I’ll go along with you at once.”

His heart was palpitating. The prospect of a face to face encounter with the redoubtable Mrs. Peixada caused him unwonted trepidation. The tidings conveyed in Peixada’s note were so unexpected and of such grave importance, no wonder Arthur’s serenity was ruffled. Striding up Broadway at the messenger’s heels, he tried to picture to himself the impending scene. The trap had sprung. What manner of creature would the quarry turn out to be? Poor woman! There was a lot of trouble in store for her. But it was not his fault. He had done nothing but that which his duty as an attorney had required of him. He would exert his influence in her behalf—try to smooth things down for her, and make them as comfortable as under the circumstances they could be. Still for all slips of hers, she was one of Eve’s family. He felt that he pitied her from the bottom of his soul.

Peixada was nervously pacing back and forth in the show-room.

“Ah,” he cried, catching hold of Arthur’s hand and wringing it vigorously, “you have come! What luck, eh? I can scarcely believe it is true. I’m quite put about by it, I declare. She walked in here, as large as life, not half an hour ago, and asked to see me. I had no idea the sight of her would upset me so. I told her that my business with her was of a legal nature, and I guessed she’d better wait while I sent round for my attorney. But I was desperately afraid you hadn’t got back. She acted just like a lamb. I tell you, that advertisement was a happy thought, wasn’t it? Pity we didn’t advertise in the first place, and so save all that delay and money. But I’m not complaining—not I. I’d be willing to spend twice the same amount right over again for the same result. Now we’ll get a round hundred thousand; and I won’t forget you.”

“Have you notified Mr. Romer, too?”

“Oh, yes; of course. Sent word for him to come with his officers. She—she’s in my private office—there—behind that door. Won’t you go in, and tell her about the will, and keep her occupied till they get here?”

“I—I think it would be best to wait,” said Arthur, his voice trembling.

“No—no. She’ll begin to get impatient. Please go in now. It’ll relieve my agitation, anyhow. I’m really surprised to find myself so shaken up. Here—this is the door. Open it, and go ahead in.”

“Oh—very well,” consented Arthur.

He put his hand upon the knob, fortified himself with a long breath, and entered the room. Peixada, sticking his head in behind him, rattled off, “Here, madam, is the gentleman I spoke to you about. He’ll explain what we want you for,” and withdrew, slamming the door.

Peixada’s private office was scarcely more than a hole in the wall—a small, square closet, lighted by a single grimy window, and destitute of furniture except for a desk and a couple of chairs.

In one of these chairs, with her back toward the door, and engaged apparently in looking out of the window, sat a lady.

Standing still, a yard beyond the threshold, Arthur said, “I beg your pardon, madam—Mrs. Peixada.”

The lady rose, turned around, faced him.

The lady was his wife.

A slight, startled smile crossed her face. “Why—Arthur—you—?” she began in atone of surprise, her eyes brightening.

But suddenly a change; a look of perplexity, followed by one of enlightenment, as if a dreadful truth had burst upon her. The blood sank from her cheeks, her lip curled, her breast fluttered—a terrible fire flashed from her eyes. She drew herself up. She was awful, but she was superb.

“Ah,” she said, “I see. So you have been prying into my secrets behind my back—you, who were too magnanimous to let me tell them to you! It was for you that Mr. Peixada bade me wait. This is the surprise he spoke of—a surprise of your contriving. You have found out who I am. I hope you are—-”

She broke off. Her voice had been very low, but had vibrated with passion. Now, the flaming, contemptuous eyes with which she covered him, spoke her mind more plainly than her tongue could.

He, upon her first rising and facing him, had started back, gasping, “Good God—you—Ruth!” Since then a chaos of emotions had held him, dumb.

But gradually he recovered himself in some measure.

His face a picture of blank amazement, “For heaven’s sake, Ruth, what does this mean?” he cried.

She did not hear him. Her anger of a moment since gave way to a paroxysm of pain.

“Oh, merciful God,” she moaned, “how I have been deceived! Oh, to think that he—my—my husband—Oh, it is too much! It is more than I can bear.”

She broke down in a torrent of tears and sobs.

An impulse carried him to her side. He put his arm around her waist, drew her to him, bent over her, stammered out broken syllables of love, comfort, entreaty.

His touch rekindled her wrath, and endowed her frame with preternatural strength. She repulsed him—flung him away from her, over against the opposite wall, with as little effort as if he had been a stick in her path. This fragile woman, towering above this stalwart man, her cheeks now burning scarlet, her limbs quivering with strong emotion, cried, “How dare you touch me? How dare you speak to me? How dare you insult me with your presence? Is it not enough what you have done, without forcing me to remain in the same room with you? Are you not content to have consorted with Benjamin Peixada—to have listened to the story of your wife’s life from that man’s lips—without coming here to confront me with it—to compel me to defend myself against his accusations. Wasn’t it enough to put that advertisement in the paper? Haven’t you sufficiently punished me by decoying me to this place, as you have done? What more do you want? What new humiliation? Though you hate me, now that you know who I am and what I haye done—you, who talked of loving me in spite of every thing—can you not be merciful, and leave me alone? Go—out of my sight—or, at least, stand aside and let me go.”

Her words were followed by a prolonged, convulsive shudder.

Exerting his utmost self-control, dazed and bewildered as he was, he began, “Ruth, will you not give me a chance to speak? Will you not listen to me? Can’t you see that this is some—some frightful error into which we have fallen—which we can only right by speaking? You are doing me a great wrong, Ruth. You are wronging yourself. I beg of you, subdue your anger—oh, for God’s sake, don’t look at me like that. Try to be calm, Ruth, and let us talk together. Let me explain to you. Explain to me, for I am as hopelessly in the dark as you can be. Let us have some understanding.”

His plea passed totally without effect: I suppose, because his wife was a woman. The tumult and the violence of the shock she had sustained had shattered her good sense. Her perceptive faculties were benumbed. Her entire vitality was absorbed by her pain and her indignation. I doubt whether she had heard what he said. But she caught at the last word, at any rate.

“Understanding? What is there to understand? I understand—I understand quite enough. I understand that you have sought information about me from Benjamin Peixada. I understand that it was you who got me here by false pretenses—by that advertisement. I understand that you—you think I am—that you believe what Benjamin Peixada has told you—and that—that the love you protested so much about, has all—all died away—and you—you shudder to think that I am your wife. Well, you may understand this, that I too shudder. I shudder to think that you are my husband—to think that you could have done this behind my back—that—that you—even when you were pretending to love me most, and telling me that you did not care about my secret—even then, you were fraternizing with Benjamin Peixada! You may understand that, however base you may believe me to be, I believe you to be baser still. Oh, if you would only go away, and never, never intrude yourself upon my sight again!”

Completely undone, he could only press his hands to his temples, and murmur, “Oh my God, my God!”

So they stood: he, hanging his head, deserted by his manhood, crushed as by a blow from out the skies; she, erect, scornful, magnificent, all her womanhood aroused, all her unspeakable fury blazing in her eyes: so they stood, when, the door creaking open, two new personages advanced upon the scene.

He did not recognize them; but an instinct told him who they were. He was petrified. It did not occur to him to interfere.

“Mrs. Peixada, I believe, ma’am?” said one of them, with a smirk.

He had to repeat his query thrice before she deigned to give him her attention.

Then with supreme dignity, bending her neck, “What do you wish with me?” she asked.

“Here, ma’am, is a bench-warrant which I have the honor of serving upon you—matter of the People of the State of New York against Judith Peixada, otherwise known as Judith Karon, charged with murder in the first degree upon the person of Edward Bolen, late of the City, County, and State of New York, deceased. Please come along quiet, ma’am, and make no resistance.—Donnelly, get behind her.”

The officer delivered himself rapidly of this address, and thrust his warrant into the prisoner’s hand. The man spoken to as Donnelly, took a position behind her, obedient to orders. His superior opened the door, and pointing toward it, said, “Please move along fast, ma’am.”

She, flinging one last, brief, scorching glance at her husband, bowed to the officer, and swept out of the room.

For an instant Arthur remained motionless, riveted to the spot where she had left him. All at once his body quivered perceptibly. Then, realizing what had happened, he dashed headlong through the show-room—heedless of Romer, Peixada, and a score of Peixada’s clerks, who stood still and stared—and out into the street, calling, “Ruth, Ruth, come back, come back,” at the top of his voice.

On the curbstone, hatless, out of breath, stupefied, he halted and looked up and down the street. Ruth was nowhere to be seen.

Here he was joined by Romer and Peixada.

“What is it—what has happened?” Romer asked.

“What has happened?” he repeated, dully. “Did—didn’t you know? She is my wife!”