t he could hear the murmur of the almost
soundless river below. Somehow the sound of the river was all he could
think of. Quietly moving, low-voiced couples paced up and down the
promenade, and from the music-pavilion in the distance came the whine
and shiver of the Mattiche. "In divorce," the measured voice resumed,
"there are some dangerous risks. It's a dangerous risk for a man to
divorce his wife. It's a more dangerous risk for a woman to divorce her
husband. But to marry a divorced husband or a divorced wife is the most
dangerous risk of all."

Chip's voice was thick and dry. "May I ask, sir, on what you base
your--your opinion?"

"Chiefly on the principle that, no matter how successfully the dead are
buried, they may come back again as ghosts. No one can keep them from
doing that."

"And--and I presume, sir, that you held this theory when you married?"

"I held it _as_ a theory; I didn't know it as a fact."

Chip felt obliged to struggle onward. "And do I understand you to be
telling me now that the ghosts _have_ come back?"

"Perhaps you could as easily tell me."

It was a minute or more before Chip was able to say, in a voice he tried
to keep firm: "If they have come back, you're not more haunted by them
than--than any one else."

"So I understand."

The brief responses had the effect of dragging him forward. "And would
it be fair to ask why you say that?--that you understand?"

"Oh, quite fair. It's partly because you are here."

"Then you think I ought to go away?"

"I think--since you ask me--that you oughtn't to have come."

"I came--to rest."

"I don't question that. I'm only struck by--by the long arm of
coincidence."

"That is, you believe I had another motive?"

With a gesture he seemed to wave this aside. "That's hardly my affair.
You're here; and, since you are, I'd rather--"

"Yes?"

"I'd rather you didn't hurry away."

He rose on saying this, apparently with the intention of going back to
the hotel. Chip remained seated. He smoked mechanically, without knowing
what he did. Questions rose to his lips and died there. Was Edith in
Berne? Had she seen him? Was she keeping out of his way? Was she being
kept out of his way? Was she suffering? Was it through her that he had
been recognized? The fact that he _had_ been recognized brought with it
a kind of humiliation. The humiliation was the greater because of the
way in which he had singled out this man and approached him. During al