r secret? Not that she had had lovers, for he had
accepted that fact already, and for him the past had ceased to exist.
Her husband was dead. Nothing else mattered. Nevertheless, the vague
prescient chill he had experienced the night he first met her eyes, and
once or twice since, accompanied as it was by a curious sense that just
below his consciousness lay the key to the mystery, rattling now and
again, but sinking deeper every time he made a dart at it, had defied
further evasion since the receipt of her cryptic letter. He was the
more uneasy as she seemed far more certain of Mrs. Oglethorpe than of
himself.

Once more he heard the key rattle, but higher . . . almost in his
consciousness . . . for the first time it seemed to sound a double note
of warning . . . he had a sudden vision of a locked door--and not a
door locked on a mere secret.

He swung about impatiently. The explanation of his mood was this
hideous interval to be got through, Heaven alone knew how. No wonder
he had felt a sensation of terror. When a man is in the unsatisfied
stages of love he must expect occasional attacks of greensickness,
sullen passions intensified by unreasoning fear. And he was luckier
than most. He had been the confidant of men in love, with hope
deferred or blasted, and although he had been sympathetic enough, and
convinced that men had a far deeper capacity for suffering than women,
still had his pity been tempered by a certain contempt. Those had been
the times when he had flouted the idea that he was basically romantic;
and that he had never made a jackass of himself over any woman had
induced a feeling of superiority that had expanded his ego. Now he was
convinced that his capacity for love put theirs to shame, and he was
filled with pride at the thought. Still--he wished it were Saturday
night.

He was crossing the room to his solitary table when he saw Jim
Oglethorpe enter. His first impulse was to avoid him. The restaurant
was well-filled and he could easily take a table in a corner with his
back to the room. But dining alone was a melancholy business at
best--and tonight! If Oglethorpe brought up Madame Zattiany's name he
could change the subject or state bluntly that he had his reasons for
not wishing to discuss her. As he stood hesitating, Oglethorpe caught
sight of him and almost ran across the room, his face, which had looked
heavy and worried, glowing with pleasure.

"Jove, this is luck!" he ex