ssed the room in three strides.

"Wife!" he muttered. His voice seemed to be choked in his throat; "my
wife! It says something about my wife?"

"It says," resumed the doctor, quietly, "'your wife.' Then there's a
piece torn out, and the two words 'Mr. King.' No stop follows, and the
line is evidently incomplete."

"My wife!" mumbled Leroux, staring unseeingly at the fragment of paper.
"MY WIFE! MR. KING! Oh! God! I shall go mad!"

"Sit down!" snapped Dr. Cumberly, turning to him; "damn it, Leroux, you
are worse than a woman!"

In a manner almost childlike, the novelist obeyed the will of the
stronger man, throwing himself into an armchair, and burying his face in
his hands.

"My wife!" he kept muttering--"my wife!"...

Exel and the doctor stood staring at one another; when suddenly, from
outside the flat, came a metallic clattering, followed by a little
suppressed cry. Helen Cumberly, in daintiest deshabille, appeared in
the lobby, carrying, in one hand, a chafing-dish, and, in the other,
the lid. As she advanced toward the study, from whence she had heard her
father's voice:--

"Why, Mr. Leroux!" she cried, "I shall CERTAINLY report you to Mira,
now! You have not even touched the omelette!"

"Good God! Cumberly! stop her!" muttered Exel, uneasily. "The door was
not latched!"...

But it was too late. Even as the physician turned to intercept his
daughter, she crossed the threshold of the study. She stopped short
at perceiving Exel; then, with a woman's unerring intuition, divined a
tragedy, and, in the instant of divination, sought for, and found, the
hub of the tragic wheel.

One swift glance she cast at the fur-clad form, prostrate.

The chafing-dish fell from her hand, and the omelette rolled, a
grotesque mass, upon the carpet. She swayed, dizzily, raising one hand
to her brow, but had recovered herself even as Leroux sprang forward to
support her.

"All right, Leroux!" cried Cumberly; "I will take her upstairs again.
Wait for me, Exel."

Exel nodded, lighted his cigar, and sat down in a chair, remote from the
writing-table.

"Mira--my wife!" muttered Leroux, standing, looking after Dr. Cumberly
and his daughter as they crossed the lobby. "She will report to--my
wife."...

In the outer doorway, Helen Cumberly looked back over her shoulder,
and her glance met that of Leroux. Hers was a healing glance and a
strengthening glance; it braced him up as nothing else could have done.
He turned to Exel.