Part 11 (1/2)

The door opened and the maid entered. On the tray was a letter.

”For me?” he said, surprised. ”By messenger?”

”Yes, sir.”

He signed the slip, glancing at the envelope. It was in his wife's handwriting.

”Margaret!” he said suddenly.

”Yes, sir.”

”The boy's waiting for an answer, isn't he?”

”No, sir.”

He stood a moment in blank uneasiness, until, suddenly aware that she was waiting, he dismissed her with a curt:

”Oh, very well.”

Then he remained by the table, looking at the envelope which he did not open, hearing the sound of the closing outer door and the pa.s.sing of the maid down the hall.

”Why didn't she telephone?” he said aloud slowly.

He looked at the letter again. He had made no mistake. It was from his wife.

”If she's gone off again on some whim,” he said angrily, ”by George, I won't stand for it.”

Then carelessly inserting a finger, he broke the cover and glanced hastily down the letter:

My dear Jackie:

When you have read this I shall have left you forever. Forget me and try to forgive. In the six years we have lived together, you have always been kind to me. But, Jack, there is something we cannot give or take away, and because some one has come who has won that, I am leaving you. I'm sorry, Jackie, I'm sorry.

Irene.

When he had read this once in unbelief, he read it immediately again, approaching the lamp, laying it on the table and pressing his fists against his temple, to concentrate all his mind.

”It's a joke,” he said, speaking aloud.

He rose, stumbling a little and aiding himself with his arm, leaning against the wall, went into her room, and opened the drawer where her jewel case should be. It was gone.

”Then it's true,” he said solemnly. ”It's ended. What am I to do?”

He went to her wardrobe, looking at the vacant hooks, repeating:

”What am I to do?”

He went slowly back to the living-room to the desk by the lamp, where the hateful thing stared up at him.

”What am I to do?”