ed. "Expense?"

Soames shrugged. "In reason," he answered curtly, and got up. "Keep it
entirely in your own hands."

"Entirely," said Mr. Polteed, appearing suddenly between him and the
door. "I shall be seeing you in that other case before long. Good
morning, sir." His eyes slid unprofessionally over Soames once more, and
he unlocked the door.

"Good morning," said Soames, looking neither to right nor left.

Out in the street he swore deeply, quietly, to himself. A spider's
web, and to cut it he must use this spidery, secret, unclean method,
so utterly repugnant to one who regarded his private life as his most
sacred piece of property. But the die was cast, he could not go back.
And he went on into the Poultry, and locked away the green morocco case
and the key to that cipher destined to make crystal-clear his domestic
bankruptcy.

Odd that one whose life was spent in bringing to the public eye all the
private coils of property, the domestic disagreements of others, should
dread so utterly the public eye turned on his own; and yet not odd,
for who should know so well as he the whole unfeeling process of legal
regulation.

He worked hard all day. Winifred was due at four o'clock; he was to take
her down to a conference in the Temple with Dreamer Q.C., and waiting
for her he re-read the letter he had caused her to write the day of
Dartie's departure, requiring him to return.

"DEAR MONTAGUE,

"I have received your letter with the news that you have left me for
ever and are on your way to Buenos Aires. It has naturally been a great
shock. I am taking this earliest opportunity of writing to tell you
that I am prepared to let bygones be bygones if you will return to me
at once. I beg you to do so. I am very much upset, and will not say any
more now. I am sending this letter registered to the address you left at
your Club. Please cable to me.

"Your still affectionate wife,

"WINIFRED DARTIE."

Ugh! What bitter humbug! He remembered leaning over Winifred while she
copied what he had pencilled, and how she had said, laying down her pen,
"Suppose he comes, Soames!" in such a strange tone of voice, as if she
did not know her own mind. "He won't come," he had answered, "till he's
spent his money. That's why we must act at once." Annexed to the copy of
that letter was the original of Dartie's drunken scrawl from the Iseeum
Club. Soames could have wished it had not been so manifestly penned in
liquor. Just the s