nhappy conference he had to anticipate. It suddenly
presented itself to his reason, with shocking force, that his attitude
must be humbly and wholly apologetic. It was a singular case: he had
come home to find his wife on the point of marrying another man--and
_she_ was the one entitled to feel aggrieved! Strange twist of the
eternal triangle!...

He tried desperately, and with equal futility, to frame some excuse for
his fault.

Far too soon the machine swerved into Fifty-seventh Street, slipped
halfway down the block, described a wide arc to the northern curb and
pulled up, trembling, before a modest modern residence between Sixth and
Seventh avenues.

Reluctantly Whitaker got out and, on suspicion, told the chauffeur to
wait. Then, with all the alacrity of a condemned man ascending the
scaffold, he ran up the steps to the front door.

A man-servant answered his ring without undue delay.

Was Miss Law at home? He would see.

This indicated that she was at home. Whitaker tendered a card with his
surname pencilled after that of _Mr. Hugh Morten_ in engraved script. He
was suffered to enter and wait in the hallway.

He stared round him with pardonable wonder. If this were truly the home
of Mary Ladislas Whitaker--her property--he had builded far better than
he could possibly have foreseen with that investment of five hundred
dollars six years since. But who, remembering the tortured, half-starved
child of the Commercial House, could have prefigured the Sara Law of
to-day--the woman who, before his eyes, within that hour, had burst
through the counterfeit of herself of yesterday like some splendid
creature emerging from its chrysalis?

Soft, shaded lights, rare furnishings, the rich yet delicate atmosphere
of exquisite taste, the hush and orderly perfection of a home made and
maintained with consummate art: these furnished him with dim, provoking
intimations of an individuality to which he was a stranger--less than a
stranger--nothing....

The man-servant brought his dignity down-stairs again.

Would Mr. Whitaker be pleased to wait in the drawing-room?

Mr. Whitaker surrendered top-coat and hat and was shown into the
designated apartment. Almost immediately he became aware of feminine
footsteps on the staircase--tapping heels, the faint murmuring of
skirts. He faced the doorway, indefinably thrilled, the blood quickening
in throat and temples.

To his intense disappointment there entered to him a woman impo