er's behavior, the girl was not going to
bother him. Peter left his horse at the stable, and taking a hansom,
went to his club. There he spent a calm half hour over the evening
papers. His dinner was eaten with equal coolness. Not till he had
reached his study did he vary his ordinary daily routine. Then, instead
of working or reading, he rolled a comfortable chair up to the fire, put
on a fresh log or two, opened a new box of Bock's, and lighting one,
settled back in the chair. How many hours he sat and how many cigars he
smoked are not recorded, lest the statement should make people skeptical
of the narrative.

Of course Peter knew that life had not lost its troubles. He was not
fooling himself as to what lay before him. He was not callous to the
sufferings already endured. But he put them, past, and to come, from him
for one evening, and sat smoking lazily with a dreamy look on his face.
He had lately been studying the subject of Asiatic cholera, but he did
not seem to be thinking of that. He had just been through what he called
a "revolting experience," but it is doubtful if he was thinking of that.
Whatever his thoughts were, they put a very different look on his face
than that which it used to wear while he studied blank walls.

When Peter sat down, rather later than usual at his office desk the next
morning, he took a sheet of paper, and wrote, "Dear sir," upon it. Then
he tore it up. He took another and wrote, "My dear Mr. D'Alloi." He tore
that up. Another he began, "Dear Watts." A moment later it was in the
paper basket. "My dear friend," served to bring a similar fate to the
fourth. Then Peter rose and strolled about his office aimlessly. Finally
he went out into a gallery running along the various rooms, and, opening
a door, put his head in.

"You hypocritical scoundrel," he said. "You swore to me that you would
never tell a living soul."

"Well?" came a very guilty voice back.

"And Dorothy's known all this time."

Dead silence.

"And you've both been as innocent as--as you were guilty."

"Look here, Peter, I can't make you understand, because you've--you've
never been on a honeymoon. Really, old fellow, I was so happy over your
generosity in giving me a full share, when I didn't bring a tenth of the
business, and so happy over Dorothy, that If I hadn't told her, I should
have simply--bust. She swore she'd never tell. And now she's told you!"

"No, but she told some one else."

"Never!"

"Yes.