wife.’ Then there’s a piece torn out, and the two words ‘Mr. King.’ No stop follows, and the line is evidently incomplete.”
“My wife!” mumbled Leroux, staring unseeingly at the fragment of paper. “My wife! Mr. King! Oh! God! I shall go mad!”
“Sit down!” snapped Dr. Cumberly, turning to him; “damn it, Leroux, you are worse than a woman!”
In a manner almost childlike, the novelist obeyed the will of the stronger man, throwing himself into an armchair, and burying his face in his hands.
“My wife!” he kept muttering—“my wife!”…
Exel and the doctor stood staring at one another; when suddenly, from outside the flat, came a metallic clattering, followed by a little suppressed cry. Helen Cumberly, in daintiest deshabille, appeared in the lobby, carrying, in one hand, a chafing-dish, and, in the other, the lid. As she advanced toward the study, from whence she had heard her father’s voice:—
“Why, Mr. Leroux!” she cried, “I shall certainly report you to Mira, now! You have not even touched the omelette!”
“Good God! Cumberly! stop her!” muttered Exel, uneasily. “The door was not latched!”…
But it was too late. Even as the physician turned to intercept his daughter, she crossed the threshold of the study. She stopped short at per-
