he said, as he might have spoken to any friend. "I heard
you stirring about, so I thought I might knock. Are you going out
early?" as his eyes wandered over her dress.

"You mean because I'm dressed? No, I didn't think of it. I couldn't
sleep. The night was hot, and the heat was on my nerves, I suppose, so I
got up at six. I hope I didn't disturb you, Roger?"

"Not at all," he politely replied. "I've some business which will take
me out half an hour sooner than usual. I suppose they can give us
breakfast in time for that? Coffee and toast and grape fruit can't take
long to make ready?"

"I'll ring for breakfast. I didn't know if----"

"Didn't know--what?" he caught up her sentence as it broke.

"Oh, nothing--important," she excused herself. Yet she was sure he knew
what had stopped her short of saying that she didn't know if he would
breakfast with her in the boudoir.

"Well, I daresay Johnson has put the newspapers in their place by this
time," Roger said, ignoring her embarrassment. "I'll have a look, to
save time. You'll come when you're ready? I've a suggestion to make that
I think you'll like."

He spoke pleasantly, not at all as if he had a grudge against his wife.
Many women would have been satisfied with such a manner; but Beverley
was not of the "many women," and Roger had never been like other,
ordinary husbands. For the first morning since that day in Chicago when
he had asked her to be his wife, they had not kissed.

"It will always be like this from now on," she told herself. "I hope I
shall die. I can't live without his love, and go on seeing him every
day!"

Roger had not mentioned Clo, and Beverley held her peace. She thought it
would be best to wait and see what the newspapers said. At the end of
ten minutes, as the breakfast tray was being placed on the lace table
cover, she strolled into the boudoir. Roger hardly looked up, feigning
to be deeply interested in his paper. On other mornings--the servant
being out of the room--he would have sprung from his chair to place
hers, and perhaps to kiss the long braid of her golden brown hair, or
the back of her white neck as it showed under her fetching little cap.

"Any exciting news?" she asked in a casual tone, as she sat down--the
sort of tone which other wives perhaps use to other husbands.

"Nothing that interests us specially," Roger answered. "A rather sordid
murder, at a third-rate hotel; there's a mystery, of course."

"What hotel?" Bev