‘My name and address you know,’ began M. Boirac. ‘In business I am the managing director of the Avrotte Pump Construction Co., whose works are situated off the rue Championnet, not far from the Omnibus Co.’s depot. I am fairly well off, and we lived comfortably, my wife going a good deal into society. ‘On Saturday, the 27th ult., this day fortnight, we had a dinner party at the Avenue de l’Alma. Our principal guest was the Spanish ambassador, at whose house my wife had visited when in Madrid the previous year. Among the others was a M. Léon Felix, an old friend of my wife’s, who lived in London, and was in some business there. The guests arrived and we sat down to dinner, but unfortunately before the meal was concluded a telephone message came for me from the works to say that a serious accident had happened, and requiring my immediate presence. There was nothing for it but to apologise to my guests and go off at once, which I did, though I promised to return at the earliest possible moment.
‘When I reached the works I found that the main bed casting of a new 200-h.p. engine which was being put in during the week-end, had slipped and slewed sideways while being got into place, killing one man and seriously injuring two others. One of the cylinders was fractured, and the whole casting had jammed between the wall and the flywheel pit and could not be got out.
‘As soon as I saw how serious things were, I telephoned home to say I would be very late, and that there would be no chance of my returning in time to see my guests. However, we got on much better than I expected, and it was barely eleven when I turned out of the works. Not seeing a taxi, I walked to the Simplon station of the Metro. My route, as you will understand, involved a change of trains at Chatelet and I accordingly alighted there. I had hardly done so when I was clapped on the back by some one, and turning, found an American acquaintance called Myron H. Burton, with whom I had stayed in the same hotel in New York and with whom I had become friendly. We stood in talk for some time, and then I asked him where he was staying, inviting him to put up at my house instead of returning to his hotel. He declined, saying he was going to Orléans by the 12.35 from the Quai d’Orsay, and asked me to go and see him off and have a drink at the station. I hesitated, but remembering I was not expected at home, I agreed and we set off. This night being mild and pleasant we walked along the quais, but when we reached the Port Royal it was barely a quarter to twelve. Burton suggested continuing our stroll, which we did, going round the Place de la Concorde and the end of the Champs élysées. Interested in our talk, we forgot the passage of time, and arrived at the Gare Quai d’Orsay with only a minute to spare for my friend to catch his train and, therefore, to his apparent great chagrin, missing the drinks to which he had wished to treat me. I felt wakeful, and began to walk home, but when I had gone about half-way, rain began to fall. I looked for a taxi, but could not see one, and therefore continued my journey on foot, arriving home about one o’clock.
‘Fran?ois, the butler, met me in the hall. He seemed uneasy.
‘“I heard the front door bang not ten minutes ago, monsieur,” he said, as I took off my wet coat. “I got up to see if anything was wrong.”
‘“Got up?” I said. “How had you come to go to bed before I returned?”
‘“Madame told me to, monsieur, about half-past eleven. She said you would be very late and that she would be sitting up.”
‘“All right,” I said, “where is Madame?”
‘He hesitated.
‘“I don’t know, monsieur,” he said at length.
‘“Don’t know?” I said. I was growing angry. “Has she gone to bed?”
‘“She has not gone to bed, monsieur,” he answered.
‘I am not, M. de Chef, an imaginative man, but suddenly a feeling of foreboding swept over me. I hurried into the drawing-room and from that to my wife’s small sitting-room. They were both empty. I ran to her bedroom. There was no one there. Then I recollected she had frequently waited for me in my study. I went there to find it also untenanted, and I was just about to withdraw when I saw on my desk a letter which had not been there earlier in the evening. It was addressed to me in my wife’s handwriting, and, with a terrible sinking of the heart, I opened it. Here, M. le Chef, it is.’
It was a short note, written on a sheet of cream-laid notepaper and without date or address. It read:—
‘I do not ask you to forgive me for what I am doing to-night, Raoul, for I feel it would be quite too much to expect, but I do ask you to believe that the thought of the pain and annoyance it will be bound to give you cuts me to the heart. You have always been just and kind according to your lights, but you know, Raoul, as well as I do, that we have never loved each other. You have loved your business and your art collection, and I have loved—Léon Felix, and now I am going to him. I shall just disappear, and you will never hear of me again. You, I hope, will get your divorce, and be happy with some more worthy woman.
‘Good-bye, Raoul, and do not think worse of me than you can help.
‘Annette.’        
 
M. Boirac bowed his head while the others read this unhappy note. He seemed overcome with emotion, and there was silence in the Chief’s room for a few seconds. The sun shone gaily in with never a hint of tragedy, lighting up that bent figure in the arm-chair, and bringing into pitiless prominence details that should have been cloaked decently in shadow, from the drops of moisture on the drawn brow to the hands clenched white beneath the edge of the desk. Then, as they waited, he pulled himself together with an effort and continued:—
‘I was almost beside myself from the blow, and yet I instinctively felt I must act as if nothing had happened. I steadied myself and called to Fran?ois, who was still in the hall:—
‘“It’s all right, Fran?ois. I’ve had a note from Madame. She was obliged to go out at a moment’s notice to catch the Swiss train. She had a message that her mother is dying.”
‘He replied in his ordinary tone, but I could see that he did not believe one word. The understanding and the pity in his eyes almost drove me frantic. I spoke again as carelessly as I could,—
‘“I wonder had she time to call Suzanne and get properly dressed. You might send her here and then you can get back to bed.”
‘Suzanne was my wife’s maid, and when she came into the study I saw from her startled and embarrassed air that she knew.
‘“Suzanne,” I said, “Madame h............