scribbled the name in a note-book, and
was particular as to whether it ended in one "n" or two.

Still, he carried other shots in his locker. In fact, Mr. Fowler, had he
taken in youth to nicer legal subtleties than handcuffs and summonses,
would have become a shrewd lawyer.

"We'll leave Mr. Ingerman for the moment," he said, implying, of course,
that on returning to him there might be revelations. "I gather that you
and Miss Melhuish did not agree, shall I put it? as to the precise
bearing of the marriage tie on your love affair?"

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow your meaning," and Grant's tone
stiffened ominously, but his questioner was by no means abashed.

"I have no great acquaintance with the stage or its ways, but I have
always understood that divorce proceedings among theatrical folk were,
shall we say? more popular than, in the ordinary walks of life," said
Mr. Fowler.

Grant's resentment vanished. The superintendent's calm method, his
interpolated apologies, as it were, for applying the probe, were
beginning to interest him.

"Your second effort is more successful, superintendent," he said dryly.
"Miss Melhuish did urge me to obtain her freedom. It was, she thought,
only a matter of money with Mr. Ingerman, and she would be given material
for a divorce."

"Ah," murmured Fowler again, as though the discreditable implication
fitted in exactly with the life history of a noted scoundrel in a written
_dossier_ then lying in his office. "You objected, may I suggest, to that
somewhat doubtful means of settling a difficulty?"

"Something of the kind."

Assuredly, Grant did not feel disposed to lay bare his secret feelings
before this persuasive superintendent and an absurdly conceited village
constable. Love, to him, was an ideal, a blend of mortal passion and
immortal fire. But the flame kindled on that secret altar had scorched
and seared his soul in a wholly unforeseen way. The discovery that
Adelaide Melhuish was another man's wife had stunned him. It was not
until the fire of sacrifice had died into parched ashes that its earlier
banality became clear. He realized then that he had given his love to a
phantom. By one of nature's miracles a vain and selfish creature was
gifted in the artistic portrayal of the finer emotions. He had worshiped
the actress, the mimic, not the woman herself. At any rate, that was how
he read the repellent notion that he should bargain with any man for the
sale of a wife.