yself.

It had been our policy to take up different subjects for these
neighborhood dinners. Sperry was a reformer in his way, and on his
nights we generally took up civic questions. He was particularly
interested in the responsibility of the state to the sick poor. My wife
and I had "political" evenings. Not really politics, except in their
relation to life. I am a lawyer by profession, and dabble a bit in city
government. The Robinsons had literature.

Don't misunderstand me. We had no papers, no set programs. On the
Robinson evenings we discussed editorials and current periodicals, as
well as the new books and plays. We were frequently acrimonious, I fear,
but our small wrangles ended with the evening. Robinson was the literary
editor of a paper, and his sister read for a large publishing house.

Mrs. Dane was a free-lance. "Give me that privilege," she begged. "At
least, until you find my evenings dull. It gives me, during all the week
before you come, a sort of thrilling feeling that the world is mine to
choose from." The result was never dull. She led us all the way from
moving-pictures to modern dress. She led us even further, as you will
see.

On consulting my note-book I find that the first evening which directly
concerns the Arthur Wells case was Monday, November the second, of last
year.

It was a curious day, to begin with. There come days, now and then,
that bring with them a strange sort of mental excitement. I have never
analyzed them. With me on this occasion it took the form of nervous
irritability, and something of apprehension. My wife, I remember,
complained of headache, and one of the stenographers had a fainting
attack.

I have often wondered for how much of what happened to Arthur Wells the
day was responsible. There are days when the world is a place for love
and play and laughter. And then there are sinister days, when the earth
is a hideous place, when even the thought of immortality is unbearable,
and life itself a burden; when all that is riotous and unlawful comes
forth and bares itself to the light.

This was such a day.

I am fond of my friends, but I found no pleasure in the thought of
meeting them that evening. I remembered the odious squeak in the wheels
of Mrs. Dane's chair. I resented the way Sperry would clear his throat.
I read in the morning paper Herbert Robinson's review of a book I had
liked, and disagreed with him. Disagreed violently. I wanted to call him
on the tel