t once more upon
the pavements, and London swung joyously into our hearts again, the bell
of the telephone in the hall rang out with a quivering jangle that
brought Leila to her feet even as Standish jumped to answer its summons.

She stood beside the piano as he gave answer to the call, watching him
as if she expected evil news. Dick, who had moved back into the shadow
from a lamp on the table, was staring with that same searching gaze he
had bestowed on her when she had lingered beside the window. I was
looking at him, when a queer cry from Standish whirled me around.

In the dim light of the hall he was standing with the instrument in his
hands, clutching it with the stupidity of a man who has been struck by
an unexpected and unexplainable missile. His face had gone to a grayish
white, and his hands trembled as he set the receiver on the hook. His
eyes were bulging from emotion and he kept wetting his lips as he stood
in the doorway.

"What is it?" Leila cried. "What's happened, Stan? Can't you tell me?
What is it?"

Not to her, but to Dick Allport, he made answer. "Bessie Lowe is dead!"

I saw Dick Allport's thunderstruck surprise before he arose. I saw his
glance go from Standish to Leila with a questioning that overrode all
other possible emotion in him. Then I saw him look at Burton as if he
doubted his sanity. His voice, level as ever, rang sharply across the
other man's distraction.

"When did she die?" he asked him.

"Just now." He ran his hand over his hair, gazing at Dick as if Leila
and I were not there. "She--she killed herself down in the Hotel
Meynard."

"Why?" Leila's voice, hard with terror, snapped off the word.

"She--she--I don't know." He stared at his wife as if he had just become
conscious of her presence. The grayness in his face deepened, and his
lips grew livid. Like a man condemned to death, he stared at the world
he was losing.

"Who is Bessie Lowe?" Leila questioned. "And why have they called you to
tell of her?" Her eyes blazed with a fire that seemed about to singe
pretense from his soul.

His hand went to his throat, and I saw Leila whiten. Her hand, resting
on the piano, trembled, but her face held immobile, although I knew that
all the happiness of the rest of her life hung upon his answer. On what
Standish Burton would tell her depended the years to come. In that
moment I knew that she loved him even as I loved Dick, even as women
have always loved and will always love t