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162 him warmly. We smoked and talked of our days in the army together. I felt that Gladys could safely enough flirt with such as Lester, if that was what she wanted: but Lester called only a few times after that.

For two months there was a succession of young fellows about the place. Our house was not far from the Westmoor Country Club, and the golf links came almost up to our side-yard. Our porch was a convenient' place to "drop in."

Suddenly all that sort, of thing ceased. Gladys was away a great deal, but as her mother lived in a town just a few miles away I thought nothing of that. She became very quiet, was thoughtful, absent-minded, flushed easily, seemed not herself.

At first I was a good deal puzzled, then, suddenly an explanation for the change in her dawned on me. Joy filled my soul. I was inordinately gentle with her. bought her a small automobile for her birthday, did everything I could think of for her comfort and pleasure.

After all, I told myself, the emotional phase she had passed through was natural. Marriage is a more difficult readjustment with some than others. It had evidently been so with Gladys. If a child came to us it would make everything right.

A child—our child! It was wonderful to think of. She had always refused to consider the subject saying she wished to enjoy life while she was young. But she knew I wanted a son to bear my name, a daughter to inherit her beauty, and she had accepted the inevitable. A wave of exaltation made me feel as if I were treading on clouds. I longed to mention the subject to her, but I felt that the first word about it should come from her.

I spent hours thinking of tender, loving things to do for her. She accepted everything quietly, sometimes with averted face and flushed cheeks. I would draw her inert figure into my arms and hold her close, but she made no response to my demonstrative affection.

At this stage of affairs my firm sent me on a ten-day trip to close a Western deal. It was hard to leave Gladys, but now, more than ever, I felt that we would need money, and lots of it.

We arranged for Gladys to go to her mother's, and I was to join her there on my return.

It is the same old story. I came home before I was expected, and went straight to our cottage, with the intention of having Gladys room redecorated before bringing her home.

At the gate stood Gladys' car. I rushed into the house, but there was no one on the lower floor, nor in Gladys' room, nor mine. I was about to descend the stairs when I heard a low laugh—a man's laugh—from the third floor. I dashed up there and stood gazing at the closed door of the spare room.

"What's the idea, running away from me?" asked the man. "You can't blow hot and cold with me."

"I told you not to come here again. It's not safe."

"I'm not afraid of that husband of yours. You're mine, and you're going to stay mine."

I had listened intently, but could not recognize the man's voice.

"Go now," pleaded Gladys, "and I'll come to your rooms this evening."

"Not on your life! I'm here now, and I am going to stay."

"Let go of me—you are hurting my shoulder."

There was a sound of scuffling. I tried the door. It was locked. I put my shoulder to it. The lock snapped.

Gladys gave a cry, leaped away from the man—a man whom I had never seen before. The full-lipped, black-browed type, big, soft. As I took in the scene—the tousled woman, the flushed-faced man—a great wave of disgust almost overwhelmed me.

"Well," said the man, sneeringly, "what are you going to do about it?"

"If you take her away now and treat her right—nothing."

"And if I don't take her away?"

"I'll meet that situation when it comes."