p tongues from wagging when
such a theme offered.

Tomlin created a momentary diversion by clattering in the bar. After this
professional interlude, Ingerman ignored his own compact.

"I'm sure you local residents will be interested, at least, in hearing
something of my wife's career," he said. "There never was a more lovable
and gracious woman, and no couple could be more united than she and I
till some three years ago. Then came a break. She was independent of me,
of course. She was a celebrity, I a mere nobody, best known, if at all,
as 'Miss Melhuish's husband.' Nevertheless, we were devoted to each other
until, to her and my lasting misfortune, a certain author wrote a book
which, when dramatized, contained a part for which my wife's stage
presence and talents seemed to be peculiarly suited."

Siddle stirred uneasily, but the others were still as partridges in
stubble. Ingerman did not intend to alarm the shy bird of the
covey, however.

"I name no names," he said solemnly. "Nor am I telling you anything that
will not be thoroughly exposed before the coroner and elsewhere. From
that unhappy period dated our estrangement. My wife fell under a fatal
influence which lasted, practically unchecked, until the day, if not the
very hour, of her death. Do I blame her? No--a thousand times no! You see
me, a plain man, considerably her senior. _I_ had not the gift of writing
impassioned love passages in which she could display her artistic genius.
When I came home from the City, tired after the day's work, _she_ was
just beginning hers. You know what London fashionable life is--the
theater, a supper, a dance, some great lady's 'reception,' and the rest
of it. Ah, me! The stage, and literature, and the arts generally are not
for poor fellows moiling in a City office. You gentlemen, I take it, are
all happily married--"

"I'm not," said Elkin, "but I'll lay you long odds I will be soon."

For some reason, this remark produced a certain uneasiness among his
friends. Tomlin stared at the ash of one of the cigars "stood" by this
talkative Londoner; Hobbs, whose glass had reached a low level again,
examined the dregs almost fiercely; and Siddle seemed to be about to say
something, but, with his usual restraint, kept silent. Then Ingerman made
a very shrewd guess, and wondered who Doris Martin was, and what Hobbs's
cryptic allusion had meant.

"Good luck to you, sir," he said, "but--take no offense--don't marry an
actress. T