his mate was no substitute to him for love and passion. However, she could never understand that; what outrage she would feel—and what contempt for him—if he had told her that he, a matured man with a grown daughter, required passion still. So he had sought and found passion elsewhere; leaving his wife to continue going her own way, serene and perfectly satisfied with what she had. Consequently, so far as his wife was concerned, he had convinced himself he had done right; and what was right before, was right now—except that his daughter had become involved in a disconcerting way.
But it angered him, at this moment, when he thought of Marjorie's interference with him; her attempt at dictation to him; her disappearance to intimidate him. Women passed near him,—a woman suggestive, slightly, of Sybil Russell; women gazed at him and lowered their eyes. He was attractive to women, though they did not know who he was; and this was the time of his triumph, and his wife had left him to be alone. But he need not be alone. A woman—his woman—was awaiting him, he was sure. Not on Clearedge Street in that apartment where he had been shot and his daughter had come; but at another place they had used once. The thought of it roused him; was she there?
He arose and entered a telephone booth and called that number; she was there.
About two o'clock in the morning he reached his home, which was quiet, of course, and dark except for the night light left for him; and except for the servants, it was empty. It made him feel jumpy to-night, this deserted house of his, in his let-down reaction; and as
