as not until I had ushered them into the reception
room and lighted the gas that I saw who they were. It was Elinor Wells,
in deep mourning, and Clara, Mrs. Dane's companion and secretary.

I am afraid I was rather excited, for I took Sperry's hat from him, and
placed it on the head of a marble bust which I had given my wife on our
last anniversary, and Sperry says that I drew a smoking-stand up beside
Elinor Wells with great care. I do not know. It has, however, passed
into history in the Club, where every now and then for some time Herbert
offered one of the ladies a cigar, with my compliments.

My wife, I believe, was advancing along the corridor when Sperry closed
the door. As she had only had time to see that a woman was in the room,
she was naturally resentful, and retired to the upper floor, where I
found her considerably upset, some time later.

While I am quite sure that I was not thinking clearly at the opening of
the interview, I know that I was puzzled at the presence of Mrs. Dane's
secretary, but I doubtless accepted it as having some connection with
Clara's notes. And Sperry, at the beginning, made no comment on her at
all.

"Mrs. Wells suggested that we come here, Horace," he began. "We may need
a legal mind on this. I'm not sure, or rather I think it unlikely. But
just in case--suppose you tell him, Elinor."

I have no record of the story Elinor Wells told that night in our little
reception-room, with Clara sitting in a corner, grave and white. It was
fragmentary, inco-ordinate. But I got it all at last.

Charlie Ellingham had killed Arthur Wells, but in a struggle. In parts
the story was sordid enough. She did not spare herself, or her motives.
She had wanted luxury, and Arthur had not succeeded as he had promised.
They were in debt, and living beyond their means. But even that, she
hastened to add, would not have mattered, had he not been brutal with
her. He had made her life very wretched.

But on the subject of Charlie Ellingham she was emphatic. She knew that
there had been talk, but there had been no real basis for it. She had
turned to him for comfort, and he gave her love. She didn't know where
he was now, and didn't greatly care, but she would like to recover and
destroy some letters he had written her.

She was looking crushed and ill, and she told her story incoordinately
and nervously. Reduced to its elements, it was as follows:

On the night of Arthur Wells's death they were dressin