With coffee cup daintily poised in one hand, Mrs. Lingard van Safford lifted wistful, bewitching eyes towards her husband, who sat across the breakfast table partially immersed in the morning papers.

“Are you going out this morning?” she inquired.

Mr. van Safford grunted inarticulately.

“May I inquire,” she went on placidly, and a dimple snuggled at a corner of her mouth, “if that particular grunt means that you are or are not?”

Mr. van Safford lowered his newspaper and glanced at his wife’s pretty face. She smiled charmingly.

“Really, I beg your pardon,” he apologized, “I hardly think I will go out. I feel rather listless, and I must write some letters. Why?”

“Oh, nothing particularly,” she responded.

She took a last sip of her coffee, brushed two or three tiny crumbs from her lap, laid her napkin aside, and arose. Once she turned and glanced back; Mr. van Safford was reading again.

After a while he finished the papers and stood looking out a window, yawning prodigiously at the prospect of letters to be written. His wife entered and picked up a handkerchief which had fallen beside her chair. He merely glanced around. She was dressed for the street — immaculately, stunningly gowned as only a young and beautiful and wealthy woman can gown herself.

“Where are you going, my dear?” he inquired, languidly.

“Out,” she responded archly.

She passed through the door. He heard her step and the rustle of her skirts in the hall, then he heard the front door open and close. For some reason, not quite clear even to himself, it surprised him; she had never done a thing like that before. He walked to the front window and looked out. His wife went straight down the street, and turned the first corner. After a time he wandered away to the library to nurse an emotion he had never felt before. It was curiosity.

Mrs. van Safford did not return home for luncheon, so he sat down alone. Afterwards he mouched about the house restlessly for an hour or so, then he went down town. He appeared at home again just in time to dress for dinner.

“Has Mrs. van Safford returned?” was his first question of Baxter, who opened the door.

“Yes, sir, half an hour ago,” responded Baxter. “She’s dressing.”

Mr. van Safford ran up the steps to his own apartments. At dinner his wife was radiant, rosily radiant. The flush of perfect health was in her checks and her eyes sparkled beneath their long lashes. She smiled brilliantly upon her husband. To him it was all as if some great thing had been taken out of his life, leaving it desolate, then as suddenly returned. Unnamed emotions struggled within him prompted by that curiosity of the morning, and a dozen questions hammered insistently for answers, But he repressed them gallantly, and for this he was duly rewarded.

“I had such a delightful time today!” his wife exclaimed, after the soup. “I called for Mrs. Blacklock immediately after I left here, and we were together all day shopping. We had luncheon down town.”

Oh! That was it! Mr. van Safford laughed outright from a vague sense of relief which he could not have called by name, and toasted his wife silently by lifting his glass. Her eyes sparkled at the compliment. He drained the glass, snapped the slender stem in his fingers, laughed again and laid it aside. Mrs. van Safford dimpled with sheer delight.

“Oh, Van, you silly boy!” she reproved softly, and she stroked the hand which was prosaically reaching for the salt.

It was only a little while after dinner that Mr. van Safford excused himself and started for the club, as usual. His wife followed him demurely to the door and there, under the goggling eyes of Baxter, he caught her in his arms and kissed her impetuously, fiercely even. It was the sudden outbreak of an impulsive nature — the sort of thing that makes a woman know she is loved. She thrilled at his touch and reached two white hands forward pleadingly. Then the door closed, and she stood staring down at the tip of her tiny boot with lowered lids and a little, melancholy droop at the corners of her mouth.

It was after ten o’clock when Mr. van Safford awoke on the following morning. He had been at his club late — until after two — and now drowsily permitted himself to be overcome again by the languid listlessness which is the heritage of late hours. At ten minutes past eleven he appeared in the breakfast room.

“Mrs. van Safford has been down I suppose?” he inquired of a maid.

“Oh yes, sir,” she replied. “She’s gone out.”

Mr. van Safford lifted his brows inquiringly.

“She was down a few minutes after eight o’clock, sir,” the maid explained, “and hurried through her breakfast.”

“Did she leave any word?”

“No, sir.”

“Be back to luncheon?”

“She didn’t say, sir.”

Mr. van Safford finished his breakfast silently and thoughtfully. About noon he, too, went out. One of the first persons he met down town was Mrs. Blacklock, and she rushed toward him with outstretched hand.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she bubbled, for Mrs. Blacklock was of that rare type which can bubble becomingly. “But where, in the name of goodness, is your wife? I haven’t seen her for weeks and weeks?”

“Haven’t seen her for —” Mr. van Safford repeated, slowly.

“No,” Mrs. Blacklock assured him. “I can’t imagine where she is keeping herself.”

Mr. van Safford gazed at her in dumb bewilderment for a moment, and the lines about his mouth hardened a little despite his efforts to control himself.

“I had an impression,” he said deliberately, “that you saw her yesterday — that you went shopping together?”

“Goodness, no. It must be three weeks since I saw her.”

Mr. van Safford’s fingers closed slowly, fiercely, but his face relaxed a little, masking with a slight smile, a turbulent rush of mingled emotions.

“She mentioned your name,” he said at last, calmly. “Perhaps she said she was going to call on you. I misunderstood her.”

He didn’t remember the remainder of the conversation, but it was of no consequence at the moment. He had not misunderstood her, and he knew he had not. At last he found himself at his club, and there idle guesses and conjectures flowed through his brain in an unending stream. Finally he arose, grimly.

“I suppose I’m an ass,” he mused. “It doesn’t amount to anything, of course, but —”

And he sought to rid himself of distracting thoughts over a game of billiards; instead he only subjected himself to open derision for glaringly inaccurate play. Finally he flung down the cue in disgust, strode away to the ‘phone and called up his home.

“Is Mrs. van Safford there?” he inquired of Baxter.

“No, sir. She hasn’t returned yet.”

Mr. van Safford banged the telephone viciously as he hung up the receiver. At six o’clock he returned home. His wife was still out. At half past eight he sat down to dinner, alone. He didn’t enjoy it; indeed hardly tasted it. Then, just as he finished, she came in with a rush of skirts and a lilt of laughter. He drew a long breath, and set his teeth.

“You poor, deserted dear!” she sympathized, laughingly.

He started to say something, but two soft, clinging arms were about his neck, and a velvety cheek rested against his own, so — so he kissed her instead. And really he wasn’t at all to be blamed. She sighed happily, and laid aside her hat and gloves.

“I simply couldn’t get here any sooner,” she explained poutingly as she glanced into his accusing eyes. “I was out with Nell Blakesley in her big, new touring car, and it broke down and we had to send for a man to repair it, so —”

He didn’t hear the rest; he was staring into her eyes, steadily, inquiringly. Truth shone triumphant there; he could only believe her. Yet — yet — that other thing! She hadn’t told him the truth! In her face, at last, he read uneasiness as he continued to stare, and for a moment there was silence.

“What’s the matter, Van?” she inquired solicitously. “Don’t you feel well?”

He pulled himself together with a start and for a time they chatted of inconsequential things as she ate. He watched her until she pushed her dessert plate aside, then casually, quite casually:

“I believe you said you were going to call on Mrs. Blacklock tomorrow?”

She looked up quickly.

“Oh no,” she replied. “I was with her all day yesterday, shopping. I said I had called on her.”

Mr. van Safford arose suddenly, stood glaring down at her for an instant, then turning abruptly left the house. Involuntarily she had started up, then she sat down again and wept softly over her coffee. Mr. van Safford seemed to have a very definite purpose for when he reached the club he went straight to a telephone booth, and called Miss Blakesley over the wire.

“My wife said something about — something about —” he stammered lamely, “something about calling on you tomorrow. Will you be in?”

“Yes, and I’ll be so glad to see her,” came the reply. “I’m dreadfully tired of staying cooped up here in the house, and really I was beginning to think all my friends had deserted me.”

“Cooped up in the house?” Mr. van Safford repeated. “Are you ill?”

“I have been,” replied Miss Blakesley. “I’m better now, but I haven’t been out of the house for more than a week.”

“Indeed!” remarked Mr. van Safford, sympathetically. “I’m awfully sorry, I assure you. Then you haven’t had a chance to try your — your —‘big new touring car’?”

“Why, I haven’t any new touring car,” said Miss Blakesley. “I haven’t any sort of a car. Where did you get that idea?”

Mr. van Safford didn’t answer her; rudely enough he hung up the telephone and left the club with a face like marble. When finally he stopped walking he was opposite his own house. For a minute he stood looking at it much as if he had never seen it before, then he turned and went back to the club. There was something of fright, of horror even, in his white face when he entered.

As Mr. van Safford did not go to bed that night it was not surprising that his wife should find him in the breakfast room when she came down about eight o’clock. She smiled. He stared at her with a curt: “Good morning!” Then came an ominous silence. She finished her breakfast, arose and left the house without a word. He watched her from a window until she disappeared around the corner, just four doors below, then overcome by fears, suspicions, hideous possibilities, he ran out of the house after her.

She had not been out of his sight more than half a minute when he reached the corner, yet now — now she was gone. He looked on both sides of the street, up and down, but there was no sign of her — not a woman in sight. He knew that she would not have had time to reach the next street below, then he readily saw the two obvious possibilities. One was that she had stepped into a waiting cab and been driven away at full speed; another that she had entered one of the nearby houses. If so, which house? Who did she know in this street? He turned the problem over in his mind several times, and then he was convinced that she had hurried away in waiting cab. That emotion which had begun as curiosity was now a raging, turbulent torrent.

On the following morning Mrs. van Safford came down to breakfast at fifteen minutes of eight. She seemed a little tired, and there was a trace of tears about her eyes. Baxter looked at her curiously.

“Has Mr. van Safford been down yet?” she asked.

“No, Madam,” he replied.

“Did he come in at all last night?”

“Yes, Madam. About half past two, I let him in. He had forgotten his key.”

Now as a matter of fact at that particular moment Mr. van Safford was standing just around the corner, four doors down, waiting for his wife. Just what he intended to do when she appeared was not quite clear in his mind, but the affair had gone to a point where he felt that he must do something. So he waited impatiently, and smoked innumerable cigars. Two hours passed. He glanced around the corner. No one in sight. He strolled back to the house, and met Baxter in the hall.

“Has Mrs. van Safford come down?” he asked of the servant.

“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “She went out more than an hour ago.”

Martha opened the door.

“Please, sir,” she said, “there’s a young gentleman having a fit in the reception room.”

Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen — The Thinking Machine — turned away from his laboratory table and squinted at her aggressively. Her eyes were distended with nervous excitement, and her wrinkled hands twisted the apron she wore.

“Having a fit?” snapped the scientist.

“Yes, sir,” she gasped.

“Dear me! Dear me! How annoying!” expostulated the man of achievement, petulantly. “Just what sort of a fit is it — epileptic, apoplectic, or merely a fit of laughter?”

“Lord, sir, I don’t know,” Martha confessed helplessly. “He’s just a-walking and a-talking and a-pulling his hair, sir.”

“What name?”

“I— I forgot to ask, sir,” apologized the aged servant, “it surprised me so to see a gentleman a-wiggling like that. He said, though he’d been to Police Headquarters and Detective Mallory sent him.”

The eminent logician dried his hands and started for the reception room. At the door he paused and peered in. With no knowledge of just what style of fit his visitor had chosen to have he felt the necessity of this caution. What he saw was not alarming — merely a good-looking young man pacing back and forth across the room with quick, savage stride. His eyes were blazing, and his face was flushed with anger. It was Mr. van Safford.

At sight of the diminutive figure of The Thinking Machine, topped by the enormous yellow head, the young man paused and his anger-distorted features relaxed into something closely approaching surprise.

“Well?” demanded The Thinking Machine, querulously.

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. van Safford with a slight start. “I— I had expected to find a — a — rather a different sort of person.”

“Yes, I know,” said The Thinking Machine grumpily. “A man with a black moustache and big feet. Sit down.”

Mr. van Safford sat down rather suddenly. It never occurred to anyone to do other than obey when the crabbed little scientist spoke. Then, with an incoherence which was thoroughly convincing, Mr. van Safford laid before The Thinking Machine in detail those singular happenings which had so disturbed him. The Thinking Machine leaned back in his chair, with finger tips pressed together, and listened to the end.

“My mental condition — my suffering — was such,” explained Mr. van Safford in conclusion, “that when I proved to my own satisfaction that she had twice misrepresented the facts to me, wilfully, I— I could have strangled her.”

“That would have been a nice thing to do,” remarked the scientist crustily. “You believe, then, that there may be another —”

“Don’t say it,” burst out the young man passionately. He arose. His face was dead white. “Don’t say it,” he repeated, menacingly.

The Thinking Machine was silent a moment, then glanced up in the blazing eyes and cleared his throat.

“She never did such a thing before?” he asked.

“No, never.”

“Does she — did she — ever speculate?”

Mr. van Safford sat down again.

“Never,” he responded, positively. “She wouldn’t know one stock from another.”

“Has her own bank account?”

“Yes — nearly four hundred thousand dollars. This was her father’s gift at our wedding. It was deposited in her name, and has remained so. My own income is more than enough for our uses.”

“You are rich, then?”

“My father left me nearly two million dollars,” was the reply. “But this all doesn’t matter. What I want —”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted The Thinking Machine testily. There was a long pause. “You have never quarrelled seriously?”

“Never one cross word,” was the reply.

“Remarkable,” commented The Thinking Machine ambiguously. “How long have you been married?”

“Two years — last June.”

“Most remarkable,” supplemented the scientist. Mr. van Safford stared. “How old are you?”

“Thirty.”

“How long have you been thirty?&rdq............