ved in our neighborhood for a year, that a complication had arisen in
the shape of another man.

My wife, on my return from my office in the evening, had been quite
likely to greet me with:

"Horace, he has been there all afternoon. I really think something
should be done about it."

"Who has been where?" I would ask, I am afraid not too patiently.

"You know perfectly well. And I think you ought to tell him."

In spite of her vague pronouns, I understood, and in a more masculine
way I shared her sense of outrage. Our street has never had a scandal
on it, except the one when the Berringtons' music teacher ran away with
their coachman, in the days of carriages. And I am glad to say that that
is almost forgotten.

Nevertheless, we had realized for some time that the dreaded triangle
was threatening the repute of our quiet neighborhood, and as I stood
by the telephone that night I saw that it had come. More than that,
it seemed very probable that into this very triangle our peaceful
Neighborhood Club had been suddenly thrust.

My wife accepted my excuse coldly. She dislikes intensely the occasional
outside calls of my profession. She merely observed, however, that she
would leave all the lights on until my return. "I should think you could
arrange things better, Horace," she added. "It's perfectly idiotic the
way people die at night. And tonight, of all nights!"

I shall have to confess that through all of the thirty years of our
married life my wife has clung to the belief that I am a bit of a dog.
Thirty years of exemplary living have not affected this conviction, nor
had Herbert's foolish remark earlier in the evening helped matters. But
she watched me put on my overcoat without further comment. When I kissed
her good-night, however, she turned her cheek.

The street, with its open spaces, was a relief after the dark hall. I
started for Sperry's house, my head bent against the wind, my mind on
the news I had just heard. Was it, I wondered, just possible that we had
for some reason been allowed behind the veil which covered poor Wells'
last moments? And, to admit that for a moment, where would what we had
heard lead us? Sperry had said he had killed himself. But--suppose he
had not?

I realize now, looking back, that my recollection of the other man in
the triangle is largely colored by the fact that he fell in the great
war. At that time I hardly knew him, except as a wealthy and self-made
man in his late th