ted in a chaise which had driven
up to the villa opposite. . . . What a charming little mare was in
that chaise. Of medium size, not large, but graceful. . . . A
gentleman in a top hat was sitting in the chaise, a child about
three, apparently a boy, was sitting on his knees waving his little
hands. . . . He was waving his little hands and shouting with
delight.

Liza suddenly uttered a shriek, rose from her seat and lurched
forward.

"What is the matter?" asked Groholsky.

"Nothing. . . I only . . . I fancied. . . ."

The tall, broad-shouldered gentleman in the top hat jumped out of
the chaise, lifted the boy down, and with a skip and a hop ran gaily
in at the glass door. The door opened noisily and he vanished into
the darkness of the villa apartments.

Two smart footmen ran up to the horse in the chaise, and most
respectfully led it to the gate. Soon the villa opposite was lighted
up, and the clatter of plates, knives, and forks was audible. The
gentleman in the top hat was having his supper, and judging by the
duration of the clatter of crockery, his supper lasted long. Liza
fancied she could smell chicken soup and roast duck. After supper
discordant sounds of the piano floated across from the villa. In
all probability the gentleman in the top hat was trying to amuse
the child in some way, and allowing it to strum on it.

Groholsky went up to Liza and put his arm round her waist.

"What wonderful weather!" he said. "What air! Do you feel it? I am
very happy, Liza, very happy indeed. My happiness is so great that
I am really afraid of its destruction. The greatest things are
usually destroyed, and do you know, Liza, in spite of all my
happiness, I am not absolutely . . . at peace. . . . One haunting
thought torments me . . . it torments me horribly. It gives me no
peace by day or by night. . . ."

"What thought?"

"An awful thought, my love. I am tortured by the thought of your
husband. I have been silent hitherto. I have feared to trouble your
inner peace, but I cannot go on being silent. Where is he? What has
happened to him? What has become of him with his money? It is awful!
Every night I see his face, exhausted, suffering, imploring. . . .
Why, only think, my angel--can the money he so generously accepted
make up to him for you? He loved you very much, didn't he?"

"Very much!"

"There you see! He has either taken to drink now, or . . . I am
anxious about him! Ah, how anxious I am! Should we writ