he sat there, pencil in hand, adding up the score-cards, he
remembered that he was to interview his attorney that evening at his own
house--a late appointment, but necessary to insure the presence of one
or two physicians at a consultation to definitely decide what course of
action might be taken.

He had not laid eyes on his wife that summer, but for the first time he
had really had her watched during her absence. What she lived on--how
she managed--he had not the least idea, and less concern. All he knew
was that he had contributed nothing, and he was quite certain that her
balance at her own bank had been nonexistent for months.

But any possible additional grounds for putting her away from him that
might arise in a question as to her sources of support no longer
interested him. That line of attack was unnecessary; besides, he had no
suspicion concerning her personal chastity. But Alixe, that evening in
early spring, had unwittingly suggested to him the use of a weapon the
existence of which he had never dreamed of. And he no longer entertained
any doubts of its efficiency as a means of finally ridding him of a wife
whom he had never been able to fully subdue or wholly corrupt, and who,
as a mate for him in his schemes for the pecuniary maintenance of his
household, had proven useless and almost ruinous.

He had not seen her during the summer. In the autumn he had heard of her
conduct at Hitherwood House. And, a week later, to his astonishment, he
learned of her serious illness, and that she had been taken to Clifton.
It was the only satisfactory news he had had of her in months.

So now he sat there at the bridge-table in the private card-room of the
Stuyvesant Club, deftly adding up the score that had gone against him,
but consoled somewhat at the remembrance of his appointment, and of the
probability of an early release from the woman who had been to him only
a source of social mistakes, domestic unhappiness, and financial
disappointment.

When he had finished his figuring he fished out a check-book, detached a
tiny gold fountain-pen from the bunch of seals and knick-knacks on his
watch-chain, and, filling in the checks, passed them over without
comment.

Fane rose, stretching his long neck, gazed about through his spectacles,
like a benevolent saurian, and finally fixed his mild, protruding eyes
upon Orchil.

"There'll be a small game at the Fountain Club," he said, with a grin
which creased his cheeks un