lion loss to the country which Orr had mentioned his
bewilderment could not have been more sheer.

He stared at Fanny. She was nodding at him. Influenced by that motion
of her head, slowly, almost laboriously, he sat down. There the
disasters of the day fusing with the alcohol of the night blent with
the demand and bewildered him still more.

"What an odd thing to want," he said at last. Then rallying he added,
"You must be j-joking. Yes--really, for you know you can't tell me
why."

To this, Fanny who had been eyeing him narrowly, retorted severely: "I
wonder are you in a condition to have me tell you anything at all?"

At the imputation the poor chap, after the fashion of poor chaps in
similar shape, flared indignantly. "There is nothing the matter with
me," he protested. Though very much mixed, he managed for the moment
not to appear so. "Nothing," he reiterated.

"Then Arthur, to be quite frank, we are not suited to each other. If
you will give me a divorce it will be nice of you. If not I shall go
to Dakota and get one."

Annandale passed a hand over his forehead. He did not in the least
understand what all this was about. Then suddenly the fumes of wine
disclosed a retrospect of incidents garnered unconsciously, memories
of Fanny and Loftus, the sense of her increasing aloofness, the
knowledge of his constant presence. These things made pictures which
he saw and, seeing, inflamed. At once, in answer not to her but to
them, he got from his seat, pounded violently on an etagere and cried
with the viciousness of drink: "I'll shoot him! I'll shoot Royal
Loftus for the dog that he is!"

"Beg pardon, sir." Through the lateral entrance to the drawing-room
Harris emerged, a tray in his hand. "A necklace, sir. It was under the
dining-room table where Miss Waldron sat, sir."

Annandale strangled an oath. He glared at Fanny, glared at the man,
glared at the pearls, took the latter, thrust them in his pocket,
motioned to Harris, strode from the room, went upstairs, then down and
out from the house, slamming the door after him with a noise in which
there was the clatter of musketry and the din of oaths.

The night was black yet full of stars, the hour homicidal and serene.
Annandale strode on. Before him was the park, about it a fence of high
iron and within phantasmal peace. He did not notice it. He was
wondering angrily what he would do, how he should act.

Had he been sober he would have known at once. When in h