tinued to employ my time professionally, but only for my private
amusement or in the interests of my friends.... After some time Mr.
Drummond sought me out and begged me to renew my search for Mrs.
Whitaker; you were dead, he told me; she was due to come into your
estate--a comfortable living for an independent woman."

"And you found her and told Drummond--?"

Whitaker leaned over the table, studying the man's face with intense
interest.

"No--and yes. I found Mrs. Whitaker. I didn't report to Drummond."

"But why--in Heaven's name?"

Ember smiled sombrely at the drooping ash of his cigar. "There were
several reasons. In the first place I didn't have to: I had asked no
retainer from Drummond, and I rendered no bill: what I had found out was
mine, to keep or to sell, as I chose. I chose not to sell because--well,
because Mrs. Whitaker begged me not to."

"Ah!" Whitaker breathed, sitting back. "Why?"

"This was all of a year, I think, after your marriage. Mrs. Whitaker had
tasted the sweets of independence and--got the habit. She had adopted a
profession looked upon with abhorrence by her family; she was succeeding
in it; I may say her work was foreshadowing that extraordinary power
which made her the Sara Law whom you saw to-night. If she came forward
as the widow of Hugh Whitaker, it meant renunciation of the stage; it
meant painful scenes with her family if she refused to abandon her
profession; it meant the loss of liberty, of freedom of action and
development, which was hers in her decent obscurity. She was already
successful in a small way, had little need of the money she would get as
claimant of your estate. She enlisted my sympathy, and--I held my
tongue."

"That was decent of you."

The man bowed a quiet acknowledgment. "I thought you'd think so....
There was a third reason."

He paused, until Whitaker encouraged him with a "Yes--?"

"Mr. Whitaker"--the query came point-blank--"do you love your wife?"

Whitaker caught his breath. "What right--!" he began, and checked
abruptly. The blood darkened his lean cheeks.

"Mrs. Whitaker gave me to understand that you didn't. It wasn't hard to
perceive, everything considered, that your motive was pure
chivalry--Quixotism. I should like to go to my grave with anything half
as honourable and unselfish to my credit."

"I beg your pardon," Whitaker muttered thickly.

"You don't, then?"

"Love her? No."

There was a slight pause. Then, "I do," said this