ompted
Edith to remove Margery from him as soon as she could, and as the girl
dreaded the curious eyes of the crowd that filled the house, she was
glad to go.

It was Sunday, and I went to the office only long enough to look over my
mail. I dined in the middle of the day at Fred's, and felt heavy and
stupid all afternoon as a result of thus reversing the habits of the
week. In the afternoon I had my first conversation with Fred and Edith,
while Margery and the boys talked quietly in the nursery. They had taken
a great fancy to her, and she was almost cheerful when she was with
them.

Fred had the morning papers around him on the floor, and was in his
usual Sunday argumentative mood.

"Well," he said, when the nursery door up-stairs had closed, "what was
it, Jack? Suicide?"

"I don't know," I replied bluntly.

"What do you think?" he insisted.

"How can I tell?" irritably. "The police say it was suicide, and they
ought to know."

"The _Times-Post_ says it was murder, and that they will prove it. And
they claim the police have been called off."

I said nothing of Mr. Lightfoot, and his visit to the office, but I made
a mental note to see the _Times-Post_ people and learn, if I could, what
they knew.

"I can not help thinking that he deserved very nearly what he got,"
Edith broke in, looking much less vindictive than her words. "When one
thinks of the ruin he brought to poor Henry Butler, and that Ellen has
been practically an invalid ever since, I can't be sorry for him."

"What was the Butler story?" I asked. But Fred did not know, and Edith
was as vague as women usually are in politics.

"Henry Butler was treasurer of the state, and Mr. Fleming was his
cashier. I don't know just what the trouble was. But you remember that
Henry Butler killed himself after he got out of the penitentiary, and
Ellen has been in one hospital after another. I would like to have her
come here for a few weeks, Fred," she said appealingly. "She is in some
sanatorium or other now, and we might cheer her a little."

Fred groaned.

"Have her if you like, petty," he said resignedly, "but I refuse to be
cheerful unless I feel like it. What about this young Wardrop, Jack? It
looks to me as if the _Times-Post_ reporter had a line on him."

"Hush," Edith said softly. "He is Margery's fiance, and she might hear
you."

"How do you know?" Fred demanded. "Did she tell you?"

"Look at her engagement ring," Edith threw back triumphantly