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 sat up in bed, and said, 'His wife!' as if he didn't believe me, and I said, 'Yes, his wife!' And then Henry got out of bed and lit the gas, and went over to his coat and took out a newspaper. I thought it was kind-a funny. He opened it, and looked at it, and said, 'That ain't his wife at all. It's a woman who sings in his choir. The scoundrel, to come to a respectable house like this!' And then he showed me the newspaper, and there it all was about a preacher in Milford who'd run away with a choir singer. And there was his name and everything. You'd have thought he'd have had the sense to take some other name if he was going to do a thing like that."

McTavish looked at her quietly. "I don't think he'd ever think of a thing like that. He was a good man. He was innocent."

The woman sniffed. "I don't know about that. But it seems to me a good man wouldn't be trapsin' around with another man's wife."

The look in McTavish's eyes turned a little harder. When he spoke, his voice was stern. "I know what I mean. He was a good man. He had a hellion for a wife. She deserved what she got and worse."

Something in the quality of his voice seemed to irritate the woman, for she began to whine. "Well, you needn't insult me. I was brought up a good Christian Methodist, and I'm a regular churchgoer, and I know good from bad."

McTavish turned away in disgust. "All right! All right! Go on with your story."

"Well," said the woman, "Henry—that's my husband—said, 'You must turn them out right away. We can't have the house defiled by adulterers! Her