hanced to overhear, and that each of them
unknown to the other has told me of little happenings and incidents
which I found were common to both. Each has described the house in
which he or she lived, and it was the same house. They claim to come
from different cities in New England, they came from the same city.
They claim--"

"That is no proof," cried Hemingway, "either that they are married, or
that the man is a criminal."

For a moment Harris regarded the other in silence. Then he said:
"You're making it very hard for me. I see I've got to show you. It's
kindest, after all, to cut quick." He leaned farther forward, and his
voice dropped. Speaking quickly, he said:

"Last summer I lived outside the town in a bungalow on the Pearl Road.
Fearing's house was next to mine. This was before Mrs. Adair went to
live at the agency, and while she was alone in another bungalow farther
down the road. I was ill that summer; my nerves went back on me. I
couldn't sleep. I used to sit all night on my veranda and pray for the
sun to rise. From where I sat it was dark and no one could see me, but
I could see the veranda of Fearing's house and into his garden. And
night after night I saw Mrs. Adair creep out of Fearing's house, saw
him walk with her to the gate, saw him in the shadow of the bushes take
her in his arms, and saw them kiss." The voice of the consul rose
sharply. "No one knows that but you and I, and," he cried defiantly,
"it is impossible for us to believe ill of Polly Adair. The easy
explanation we refuse. It is intolerable. And so you must believe as I
believe; that when she visited Fearing by night she went to him because
she had the right to go to him, because already she was his wife. And
now when every one here believes they met for the first time in
Zanzibar, when no one will be surprised if they should marry, they will
go through the ceremony again, and live as man and wife, as they are,
as they were before he fled from America!"

Hemingway was seated with his elbows on the table and his face in his
hands. He was so long silent that Harris struck the table roughly with
his palm.

"Well," he demanded, "why don't you speak? Do you doubt her? Don't you
believe she is his wife?"

"I refuse to believe anything else!" said Hemingway. He rose, and
slowly and heavily moved toward the door. "And I will not trouble them
any more," he added. "I'll leave at sunrise on the Eitel."

Harris exclaimed