nees with a nervous
strength that provoked a sharp cry from his lips.

"John, John!"

He stooped and unwound her arms, gently drawing her up, up, till her
head lay against his shoulder. Then she became a dead weight. She had
fainted. He lifted her up in his strong arms and started for the
stairs.

"Were she guilty of all the crimes chronicled in hell, I still should
love her. But between you and me, Dick, things must be explained."

"I shall wait for you, John."

John was not gone long. When he returned he found Warrington by the
bow-window that looked out upon the lawn.

"Now, Dick, the truth, and nothing but the truth. Don't be afraid of
me; I am master of myself."

"I'm not afraid of you. There is half a truth in that letter," began
Warrington, facing about. "Your wife did stay a night in my
apartments."

John made no sign.

"It was the first week of a new play. I had to be at the theater every
night. There were many changes being made. Near midnight we started
out for a bite to eat. She had been suffering with attacks of
neuralgia of the heart. As we entered the carriage, one of these
attacks came on. We drove to her apartments. We could not get in. Her
maid was out, the janitor could not be found, and unfortunately she
had left her keys at the theater. In a moment like that I accepted the
first thing that came into my head: my own apartments. She was not
there a quarter of an hour before a trained nurse and her own
physician were at her side. I slept in a chair. At six the following
morning she left for her own apartments. And that, John, is the truth,
God's truth. I see now that I should have taken her to a hotel. You
know that there was a time when I was somewhat dissipated. It was easy
to take that incident and enlarge upon it. Now, let me tell you where
this base slander originated. Compare the letter you have with the one
I gave you."

John complied. He nodded. These two letters had come from the same
typewriter.

"Next?"

"Here is another document." It was the carbon sheet.

John spread the sheet against the window-pane. The light behind
brought out the letters distinctly. He scarcely reached the final line
when he spun round, his face mobile with eagerness.

"Where did this come from?"

"Indirectly, out of McQuade's waste-basket."

"Morrissy and McQuade; both of them! Oh, you have done me a service,
Dick."

"But it can not be used, John. That and the letters were written on
McQuade'