want one of the double pages by next Wednesday."

"I'll turn up," Jack promised, in an absent tone.

With that he hastened away, and as he trod the Strand his brain was in a
confused whirl, and he was oblivious of the frothing life about him. He
groped across Waterloo Bridge in the fog, and looked wistfully toward
the black river. He did not care to read the letter yet. It was enough
for the present to know that his wife had broken her word and returned
to London, doubtless with the intention of demanding more money. He
vowed that she should not have a penny. Fierce anger and resentment rose
in his heart as he remembered, with anguish as keen as it had ever been,
the blow Diane had dealt him.

"I will show her no mercy," he resolved.

In the privacy of his room, when he had locked the door and lighted the
gas, he took out the letter. His face was dark and scowling as he tore
it open, and read the few lines that it contained:

"DEAR JACK:--You will fly into a passion when you find that I am in
London, but you won't blame me when you learn the reasons that have
brought me back. I knew that you had returned from India, and I want
to see you. Not having your address, I am sending the letter to the
_Universe_ office, and I hope it will be delivered to you promptly. Will
you come to 324 Beak street, at half-past eight to-morrow night? The
street door will be open. Go to the top of the stairs, and knock at the
first door on the left. Do not fear that I shall ask for money, or make
other demands. I have much to tell you, of the greatest importance to
your future happiness. If you do not come you will regret it all your
life. I will expect you. DIANE."

With a bitter laugh Jack flung the letter on a table. It was not written
in French, for Diane was herself of English birth, though of her history
before she came to Paris her husband was ignorant; she had never spoken
to him of her earlier years, nor had he questioned her about them.

"Does she think I am a fool, to be taken in so easily?" he said to
himself. "It is a lie--a trick! Money is her game, of course. She wants
to decoy me to her lodgings, and hopes to make me yield by threats of
exposure. And yet she writes with a ring of sincerity--something like
her old self in the first days of our marriage. Bah! it is only her
cunning."

He read the letter again, and pondered it.

"It was written yesterday," he muttered. "The appointment is for
to-night. What could she po