ison is caught--I was going to say
shot, but hanging is better," said Royce.

Honor gazed at him with helpless, fascinated eyes. Mrs. Kellinger noted
the expression. There was evidently another secret: she had already
divined one.

Soon afterward Honor went home, and Stephen did not accompany her.
Adelaide noted that. She noted also that he sat longer than usual in her
parlor after the early dinner, smoking cigarettes and becoming gradually
more and more drowsy, until at last, newspaper in hand, he sauntered off
to his own room, as if for a _siesta_. It was too well acted. She said
to herself, with conviction, "He is going out!" A woman can deceive
admirably in little things; a man can not. He can keep the secret of an
assassination, but not of a clam supper. The very cat discovers it.
Adelaide went to her room, put on her trim little walking-boots and
English round hat, and, slipping quietly out of the house, walked down
the road to a wooded knoll she remembered, a little elevation that
commanded the valley and the village; here, under a tree, she sat
waiting. She had a volume of Landor: it was one of Wainwright's ways to
like Landor. After half an hour had passed, she heard, as she had
expected to hear, footsteps; she looked up. Wainwright was passing.
"Why--is it you?" she called out. "I thought you would sleep for two
hours at least. Sit down here awhile and breathe this delicious air with
me."

Wainwright, outwardly undisturbed, left the road, came up the knoll, and
sat down by her side. Being in the shade, he took off his hat and threw
himself back on the grass. But that did not make him look any larger.
Only a broad-shouldered, big fellow can amount to anything when lying
down in the open air: he must crush with his careless length a good wide
space of grass and daisies, or he will inevitably be overcome by the
preponderant weight of Nature--the fathomless sky above, the stretch of
earth on each side. Wainwright took up the volume, which Adelaide did
not conceal; that he had found her reading his favorite author secretly
was another of the little facts with which she gemmed his life. "What do
you discover to like?" he asked.

"'His bugles on the Pyrenees dissolved the trance of Europe'; and, 'When
the war is over, let us sail among the islands of the AEgean and be as
young as ever'; and, 'We are poor indeed when we have no half-wishes
left us,'" said Adelaide, musically quoting. "Then there is the
'Artemidor