this sort of a hole there's no doubt she's
some sort of a lunatic."

He looked out again furtively, thinking of what the agency had reported
to him. How was it possible for any human creature to live in such a
waste and be happy and healthy and gay, as they told him his wife was.
What could a human being do to kill the horror of such silent, deathly
white isolation? Drive about in it in a Cossack sleigh, as they said she
did? Horror!

The driver pulled up short, then began to turn his horse. Ruthven
squinted out of the window, but saw no sign of a villa. Then he rapped
sharply on the forward window, motioning the driver to descend, come
around, and open the door.

When the man appeared Ruthven demanded why he had turned his horse, and
the hackman, pointing to a wooded hill to the west, explained that the
Willow Villa stood there.

Ruthven had supposed that the main road passed the house; he got out of
the covered wagon, looked across at the low hill, and dug his gloved
hands deeper into his fur-lined pockets.

For a while he stood in the snow, stolid, thoughtful, puffing his cigar.
A half-contemptuous curiosity possessed him to see his wife once more
before he discarded her; see what she looked like, whether she appeared
normal and in possession of the small amount of sense he had
condescended to credit her with.

Besides, here was a safe chance to see her. Selwyn was in New York, and
the absolute certainty of his personal safety attracted him strongly,
rousing all the latent tyranny in his meagre soul.

Probably--but he didn't understand the legal requirements of the matter,
and whether or not it was necessary for him personally to see this place
where Selwyn maintained her, and see her in it--probably he would be
obliged to come here again with far less certainty of personal security
from Selwyn. Perhaps that future visit might even be avoided if he took
this opportunity to investigate. Whether it was the half-sneering
curiosity to see his wife, or the hope of doing a thing now which, by
the doing, he need not do later--whether it was either of these that
moved him to the impulse, is not quite clear.

He said to the hackman: "You wait here. I'm going over to the Willow
Villa for a few moments, and then I'll want you to drive me back to the
station in time for that four-thirty. Do you understand?"

The man said he understood, and Ruthven, bundled in his fur coat, picked
his way across the crust, through a g