now it was ground to powder between his teeth. The
meerschaum bowl fell to the floor, scattering a trail of sparks as it
rolled away.

"Hello!" Emmet cried. "You 've broken your pipe."

Leigh was groping for the bowl and stamping out the sparks.

"The cold weather," he muttered, "makes the amber brittle. There must
have been a flaw somewhere."

Long before Emmet had mentioned Birdseye Avenue, he had known the
worst; but only then, when he remembered the two lovers whom he and
Cardington had overtaken after the evening at Littleford's, did his
emotion culminate in this unexpected expression. She had gone from his
side, after he had made love to her and had taken the lilies of the
valley he still cherished, to walk with her real lover, to congratulate
him upon the triumph she had made her dupe describe. Now every
incident connected with her fell into its proper place and appeared
with its true meaning. He understood how he had been used from the
first; the lurking figure by the fire in the woods was no longer a
mystery; the scene on this very spot, when she had bent down to hand
Emmet the candle, was explained. The whole story, in which he played
the part of a meddler and a fool, was unrolled before him.
Emmet--Emmet--Emmet--that had been her theme, and apparently her chief
interest in life. Still, with a pitiful hope, he must needs have the
final proof before believing. There was yet some remote possibility of
a mistake, some question at least as to the extent of her infatuation
for this man. He had spoken of two women. Perhaps Miss Wycliffe's
abrupt departure was connected with a discovery of his unfaithfulness
to her, and meant that she would cast him off forever. A wild hope
that this might be so displaced his first despair. If that were
all,--a mere ideal fancy which really did her credit,--perhaps she
would return disillusioned, convinced of her mistake, and eager to bury
its very memory forever.

He regained his seat, pale as a ghost, but with a wonderful effort he
managed to smile.

Emmet reflected a moment. He had gone too far to retreat.

"Perhaps if her name were still Miss Wycliffe," he announced, "instead
of Mrs. Emmet, it might be better for all concerned."

Only the semi-darkness of the place prevented him from seeing the
effect of this disclosure. During the silence that ensued, the canvas
of the windbreak flapped audibly, like the sail of a yacht responding
to a rising breeze.