theory, and let you
draw your own deductions."

He slid into a chair, and across the table fastened his eyes on those
of his friend. Confidently and undisturbed, but with a wry smile of
dislike, Hemingway stared fixedly back at him.

"What," demanded Harris, "is the first rule in detective work?"

Hemingway started. He was prepared for something unpleasant, but not
for that particular form of unpleasantness. But his faith was
unshaken, and he smiled confidently. He let the consul answer his own
question.

"It is to follow the woman," declared Harris. "And, accordingly, what
should be the first precaution of a man making his get-away? To see
that the woman does not follow. But suppose we are dealing with a
fugitive of especial intelligence, with a criminal who has imagination
and brains? He might fix it so that the woman could follow him without
giving him away, he might plan it so that no one would suspect. She
might arrive at his hiding-place only after many months, only after
each had made separately a long circuit of the globe, only after a
journey with a plausible and legitimate object. She would arrive
disguised in every way, and they would meet as total strangers. And,
as strangers under the eyes of others, they would become acquainted,
would gradually grow more friendly, would be seen more frequently
together, until at last people would say: 'Those two mean to make a
match of it.' And then, one day, openly, in the sight of all men, with
the aid of the law and the church, they would resume those relations
that existed before the man ran away and the woman followed."

There was a short silence.

Hemingway broke it in a tone that would accept no denial.

"You can't talk like that to me," he cried. "What do you mean?"

Without resentment, the consul regarded him with grave solicitude. His
look was one of real affection, and, although his tone held the
absolute finality of the family physician who delivers a sentence of
death, he spoke with gentleness and regret.

"I mean," he said, "that Mrs. Adair is not a widow, that the man she
speaks of as her late husband is not dead; that that man is Fearing!"

Hemingway felt afraid. A month before a rhinoceros had charged him and
had dropped at his feet. At another time a wounded lioness had leaped
into his path and crouched to spring. Then he had not been afraid.
Then he had aimed as confidently as though he were firing at a straw
target. But now he