The Business of Life. Robert W. Chambers

I don't know what he'll do. I don't know him, I tell you. What do I know about him—except that he's big and red? How do I know what might be hidden behind that fixed grin of his?"

      "Well, we'll find out in a minute or two," said Desboro coolly.

      "Jim! You must stand by me now!"

      "I've done it so far, haven't I? You needn't worry."

      "You won't let him take me back! He can't, can he?"

      "Not if you refuse to go. But you won't refuse—if he's man enough to ask you to return."

      "But—suppose he won't ask me to go back?"

      "In that case I'll stand for what you've done. I'll marry you if he means to disgrace you. Now let's see what he does mean."

      She caught his sleeve as he passed her, then let it go. The steady ringing of the bell was confusing and terrifying her, and she glanced about her like a trapped creature, listening to the distant jingling of chains and the click of bolts as Desboro undid the outer door.

      Silence, then a far sound in the hall, footsteps coming nearer, nearer; and she dropped stiffly on the sofa as Desboro entered, followed by Cary Clydesdale in fur motor cap, coat and steaming goggles.

      Desboro motioned her husband to a chair, but the man stood looking at his wife through his goggles, with a silly, fixed grin stamped on his features. Then he drew off the goggles and one fur gauntlet, fumbled in his overcoat, produced the crumpled note which she had left for him, laid it on the table between them, and sat down heavily, filling the leather armchair with his bulk. His bare red hand steamed. After a moment's silence, he pointed at the note.

      "Well," she said, with an effort, "what of it! It's true—what this letter says."

      "It isn't true yet, is it?" asked Clydesdale simply.

      "What do you mean?"

      But Desboro understood him, and answered for her with a calm shake of his head. Then the wife understood, too, and the deep colour dyed her skin from throat to brow.

      "Why do you come here—after reading that?" She pointed at the letter. "Didn't you read it?"

      Clydesdale passed his hand slowly over his perplexed eyes.

      "I came to take you home. The car is here."

      "Didn't you understand what I wrote? Isn't it plain enough?" she demanded excitedly.

      "No. You'd better get ready, Elena."

      "Is that as much of a man as you are—when I tell you I'd rather be Mr. Desboro's——"

      Something behind the fixed grin on her husband's face made her hesitate and falter. Then he swung heavily around and looked at Desboro.

      "How much are you in this, anyway?" he asked, still grinning.

      "Do you expect an answer?"

      "I think I'll get one."

      "I think you won't get one out of me."

      "Oh. So you're at the bottom of it all, are you?"

      "No doubt. A woman doesn't do such a thing unpersuaded. If you don't know enough to look after your own wife, there are plenty of men who'll apply for the job—as I did."

      "You're a very rotten scoundrel, aren't you?" said Clydesdale, grinning.

      "Oh, so-so."

      Clydesdale sat very still, his grin unchanged, and Desboro looked him over coolly.

      "Now, what do you want to do? You and Mrs. Clydesdale can remain here to-night if you wish. There are plenty of bedrooms——"

      Clydesdale rose, bulking huge and menacing in his furs; but Desboro, sitting on the edge of the table, continued to swing one foot gently, smiling at danger.

      And Clydesdale hesitated, then veered around toward his wife, with the heavy movement of a perplexed and tortured bear.

      "Get your furs on," he said, in a dull voice.

      "Do you wish me to go home?"

      "Get your furs on!"

      "Do you wish me to go home, Cary?"

      "Yes. Good God! What do you suppose I came here for?"

      She walked over to Desboro and held out her hand:

      "No wonder women like you. Good-bye—and if I come again—may I remain?"

      "Don't come," he said, smiling, and holding her coat for her.

      Clydesdale strode forward, took the fur garment from Desboro's hands, and held it open. His wife looked up at him, shrugged her shoulders, and suffered him to invest her with the coat.

      After a moment Desboro said:

      "Clydesdale, I am not your enemy. I wish you good luck."

      "You go to hell," said Clydesdale thickly.

      Mrs. Clydesdale moved toward the door, her husband on one side, Desboro on the other, and so, along the hall in silence, and out to the porch, where the glare of the acetylenes lighted up the frozen drive.

      "It feels like rain," observed Desboro. "Not a very gay outlook for Christmas. All the same, I wish you a happy one, Elena. And, really, I believe you could have it if you cared to."

      "Thank you, Jim. You have been mistakenly kind to me. I am afraid you will have to be crueller some day. Good-bye—till then."

      Clydesdale had descended to the drive and was conferring with the chauffeur. Now he turned and looked up at his wife. She went down the steps beside Desboro, and he nodded good-night. Clydesdale put her into the limousine and then got in after her.

      A few moments later the red tail-lamp of the motor disappeared among the trees bordering the drive, and Desboro turned and walked back into the house.

      "That," he said aloud to himself, "settles the damned species for me! Let the next one look out for herself!"

      He sauntered back into the library. The letter that she had left for her husband still lay on the table, apparently forgotten.

      "A fine specimen of logic," he said. "She doesn't get on with him, so she decides to use Jim to jimmy the lock of wedlock! A white man can understand the Orientals better."

      He glanced at the clock, and decided that there was no sense in going to bed, so he composed himself on the haircloth sofa once more, lighted a cigarette, and began to read, coolly using the note she had left, as a bookmark.

      It was dawn before he closed the book and went away to bathe and change his attire.

      While breakfasting he glanced out and saw that it had begun to rain. A green Christmas for day after to-morrow! And, thinking of Christmas, he thought of a girl he knew who usually wore blue, and what sort of a gift he had better send her when he went to the city that morning.

      But he didn't go. He called up a jeweler and gave directions what to send and where to send it.

      Then, listless, depressed, he idled about the great house, putting off instinctively the paramount issue—the necessary investigation of his finances. But he had evaded it too long to attempt it lightly now. It was only a question of days before he'd have to take up in deadly earnest the question of how to pay his debts. He knew it; and it made him yawn with disgust.

      After luncheon he wrote a letter to one Jean Louis Nevers, a New York dealer in antiques, saying that he would drop in some day after Christmas to consult Mr. Nevers on a matter of private business.

      And that is as far as he got with his very vague plan for paying off an accumulation of debts which, at last, were seriously annoying him.

      The remainder of the day he spent tramping about the woods of Westchester with a pack of nondescript dogs belonging to