t evening, he overslept
himself and was late at the warehouse next morning for the first time in
ten years.

His personal effects arrived next day, but no letter came from his wife,
and one which he wrote concerning a pair of missing garments received no
reply. He wrote again, referring to them in laudatory terms, and got a
brief reply to the effect that they had been exchanged in part payment on
a pair of valuable pink vases, the pieces of which he could have by
paying the carriage.

In six weeks Mr. Hatchard changed his lodgings twice. A lack of those
home comforts which he had taken as a matter of course during his married
life was a source of much tribulation, and it was clear that his weekly
bills were compiled by a clever writer of fiction. It was his first
experience of lodgings, and the difficulty of saying unpleasant things to
a woman other than his wife was not the least of his troubles. He
changed his lodgings for a third time, and, much surprised at his wife's
continued silence, sought out a cousin of hers named Joe Pett, and poured
his troubles into that gentleman's reluctant ear.

"If she was to ask me to take her back," he concluded, "I'm not sure,
mind you, that I wouldn't do so."

"It does you credit," said Mr. Pett. "Well, ta-ta; I must be off."

"And I expect she'd be very much obliged to anybody that told her so,"
said Mr. Hatchard, clutching at the other's sleeve.

Mr. Pett, gazing into space, said that he thought it highly probable.

"It wants to be done cleverly, though," said Mr. Hatchard, "else she
might get the idea that I wanted to go back."

"I s'pose you know she's moved?" said Mr. Pett, with the air of a man
anxious to change the conversation.

"Eh?" said the other.

"Number thirty-seven, John Street," said Mr. Pett. "Told my wife she's
going to take in lodgers. Calling herself Mrs. Harris, after her maiden
name."

He went off before Mr. Hatchard could recover, and the latter at once
verified the information in part by walking round to his old house. Bits
of straw and paper littered the front garden, the blinds were down, and a
bill was pasted on the front parlor window. Aghast at such
determination, he walked back to his lodgings in gloomy thought.

On Saturday afternoon he walked round to John Street, and from the corner
of his eye, as he passed, stole a glance at No. 37. He recognized the
curtains at once, and, seeing that there was nobody in the room, leaned
ov