I can do
justice to her beauty. I won't attempt to describe her now. I loved
her--madly. She said I made a hit with her. I spent on her the profits
of my haberdashery. I whispered--marriage. She didn't scream. I had my
wedding necktie picked out from the samples of a drummer from Troy." He
paused and looked at Mr. Magee. "Have you ever stood, poised, on that
brink?" he asked.

"Never," replied Magee. "But go on. Your story attracts me, strangely."

"From here on--the tear I spoke of, please. There flashed on the scene a
man she had known and loved in Jersey City. I said flashed. He did--just
that. A swell dresser--say, he had John Drew beat by two mauve neckties
and a purple frock coat. I had a haberdashery back of me. No use. He
out-dressed me. I saw that Arabella's love for me was waning. With his
chamois-gloved hands that new guy fanned the ancient flame."

He paused. Emotion--or the smoke of the cigar--choked him.

"Let's make the short story shorter," he said. "She threw me down. In my
haberdashery I thought it over. I was blue, bitter. I resolved on a
dreadful step. In the night I wrote her a letter, and carried it down to
the box and posted it. Life without Arabella, said the letter, was
Shakespeare with Hamlet left out. It hinted at the river, carbolic acid,
revolvers. Yes, I posted it. And then--"

"And then," urged Mr. Magee.

Mr. Bland felt tenderly of the horseshoe pin in his purple tie.

"This is just between us," he said. "At that point the trouble began. It
came from my being naturally a very brave man. I could have died--easy.
The brave thing was to live. To go on, day after day, devoid of
Arabella--say, that took courage. I wanted to try it. I'm a courageous
man, as I say."

"You seem so," Mr. Magee agreed.

"Lion-hearted," assented Mr. Bland. "I determined to show my nerve, and
live. But there was my letter to Arabella. I feared she wouldn't
appreciate my bravery--women are dull sometimes. It came to me maybe she
would be hurt if I didn't keep my word, and die. So I had to--disappear.
I had a friend mixed up in affairs at Baldpate. No, I can't give his
name. I told him my story. He was impressed by my spirit, as you have
been. He gave me a key he had--the key of the door opening from the east
veranda into the dining-room. So I came up here. I came here to be
alone, to forgive and forget, to be forgot. And maybe to plan a new
haberdashery in distant parts."

"Was it your wedding necktie," as