pon the subject, can't you tell me exactly why your husband
dislikes me so?"

"For one thing, because you have been up against him in several of his
cases, and have always won."

"And for the other?"

"Well," she said, doubtfully, "he seems to connect you in his
mind, somehow, with a boy who was in love with me once--Mr. Spencer
Fitzgerald--you know who I mean."

Ruff nodded.

"He still has that in his mind, has he?" he remarked.

"Oh, he's mad!" she declared. "However, don't let us talk about him any
more."

The lights were being put out. Peter Ruff paid his bill and they rose
together.

"Come down to the fiat for an hour or so," she begged, taking his arm.
"I have a dear little place with another girl--Carrie Pearce. I'll sing
to you, if you like. Come down and have one drink, anyhow."

Peter Ruff shook his head firmly.

"I am sorry," he said, "but you must excuse me. In some ways, I am very
old-fashioned," he added. "I never sit up late, and I hate music."

"Just drive as far as the door with me, then," she begged.

Peter Ruff shook his head.

"You must excuse me," he said, handing her into the hansom. "And, Maud,"
he added--"if I may call you so--take my advice: give it up--go back to
your husband and stick to him--you'll be better off in the long run."

She would have answered him scornfully, but there was something
impressive in the crisp, clear words--in his expression, too, as he
looked into her eyes. She threw herself back in a corner of the cab with
an affected little laugh, and turned her head away from him.

Peter Ruff walked back into the cloak-room for his coat and hat, and
sighed softly to himself. It was the end of the one sentimental episode
of his life!

It had been the study of Peter Ruff's life, so far as possible, to
maintain under all circumstances an equable temperament, to refuse to
recognize the meaning of the word "nerves," and to be guided in all
his actions by that profound common sense which was one of his natural
gifts. Yet there were times when, like any other ordinary person, he
suffered acutely from presentiments. He left his rooms, for instance, at
five o'clock on the afternoon of the day following his supper with Maud,
suffering from a sense of depression for which he found it altogether
impossible to account. It was true that the letter which he had in his
pocket, the appointment which he was on his way to keep, were both of
them probable sources of embarrassment