e house, but the driver had told him
it was the longer way. The roof and walls rang under the downpour and he
decided that after all to spend the night in an abandoned house would be
fully as heroic as to subject himself to the ruthless fury of the
hurricane. It would be a lark to camp in the Congdon villa, a break in
the deadly routine of his days which Isabel Perry had pointed out as a
possible cause of his invalidism. He made himself comfortable and
studied the sheaf of time tables he had brought with him, methodically
formulating the messages he would be obliged to despatch in the morning
to change his westward passage.

The storm showed no sign of abating and as nightfall deepened the gloom
he set the broad fireplace in the living-room glowing, drew the shades,
and feeling twinges of hunger explored the kitchen pantry. The Congdons
had left a well-stocked larder and, finding bacon, eggs and bread, he
decided that the cooking of a supper would be a jolly incident of the
adventure. He laid aside his coat and rolling up his sleeves soon had a
fire going in the range, which smoked hideously until he mastered the
dampers. He removed the dishes that had been left on the dining-room
table and carefully laid a cover for one. The roses in a bowl that
served as a centerpiece were still fresh and were a pathetic reminder of
the mistress of the house. In rearranging the table he found a telegram
under a plate at what he assumed to be Mrs. Congdon's place. To read a
message not intended for his eyes was decidedly against his strict code,
but his curiosity overcame his scruples and these words met his eyes:

New York, June 10, 1917.
Mrs. Alice B. Congdon,
Bailey Harbor, Maine.

Your letter has your characteristic touch of cruelty. We may as
well part now and be done with it. But the children you cannot
have. Remember that I relinquish none of my rights on this
point. I demand that you surrender Edith at once and I will
communicate with you later about the custody of Harold until such
time as he is old enough to come to me.

Putney Congdon.

The cautious hint of the taxi driver that domestic difficulties were
responsible for the breaking up of the Congdon household found here a
painful corroboration. He chivalrously took sides at once with the
unhappy Alice; no matter how shrewish the absconding wife might be, only
a brute of a husband would fling such a