e for that hatred must exist, and could he but discover it
he would then have something tangible wherewith to work. Certainly, he
told himself, it could not be money; nor did Usselex look like a man
that drank. "I wonder," he mused, "whether it can be that he treats her
badly. H'm. I know very little about Usselex. He may be Chesterfield one
hour and Sykes the next. There are plenty of men of that stamp. If he
is, that poor little thing deserves consolation. No, it can hardly be
that--Eden is too high-spirited to submit to brutality. She would leave
him at once, and everyone would approve. Whereas, if Usselex has got
himself entangled by some woman, Eden, out of sheer pride, would remain
where she is. Nothing can be more galling than the pity which is
manifested for a woman whose husband disports himself abroad. It is
shameful, the world says; and inwardly the world thinks, when a woman
wins a man and fails to hold him, the fault is not his, but hers. Eden
understands that, of course, and if there is a woman in the matter, that
is the reason why she continues to reside on the sunnyside of Fifth
Avenue. But then, it may not be that. I may be miles away. Though if it
is, nothing could be more favorable. It would be becoming of Eden to
keep her misfortune to herself, but it would be unwomanly on her part
not to desire revenge; and what better revenge could she have against
the man whom she married out of pique than in the arms of the man by
whom that pique was excited? But, bah! All this is pure conjecture. I
haven't a fact to go on. I know little or nothing of Usselex, and I
doubt very much whether Eden would be willing to supply me with any
information. The only thing for me to do is to cull a few facts, season
them to suit her taste, and serve hot. At this stage a false step would
be fatal. I must be careful of my cookery. To-morrow, in the absence of
facts, I will see what I can do in the way of condiments; _et alors, en
route pour Cythere_."

So mused Mr. Maule; then, having reached the end of his tether, he
turned back again in the direction of his home.

The next morning, however, the plan of campaign which he had been
devising was not a whit more tangible to him than it had been during his
midnight stroll. He drank some coffee hopefully, and tried to lose
himself in a damp copy of the _Times_. But in vain. The coffee brought
him no comfort, and through the columns of the paper came the sultriness
of Eden's eyes. T