The explanation came a week later. It was about ten o' clock at night; I had been dining by myself at a restaurant, and having returned to my small apartment, was sitting in my parlour, reading I heard the cracked tinkling of the bell, and, going into the corridor, opened the door. Stroeve stood before me.  
"Can I come in?" he asked.
 
In the dimness of the landing I could not see him very well, but there was something in his voice that surprised me. I knew he was of abstemious habit or I should have thought he had been drinking. I led the way into my sitting room and asked him to sit down.
 
"Thank God I've found you," he said.
 
"What's the matter?" I asked in astonishment at his vehemence.
 
I was able now to see him well. As a rule he was neat in his person, but now his clothes were in disorder. He looked suddenly bedraggled. I was convinced he had been drinking, and I smiled. I was on the point of chaffing him on his state.
 
"I didn't know where to go," he burst out. "I came here earlier, but you weren't in."
 
"I dined late," I said.
 
I changed my mind: it was not liquor that had driven him to this obvious desperation. His face, usually so rosy, was now strangely mottled. His hands trembled.
 
"Has anything happened?" I asked.
 
"My wife has left me."
 
He could hardly get the words out. He gave a little gasp, and the tears began to trickle down his round cheeks. I did not know what to say. My first thought was that she had come to the end of her forbearance with his infatuation for Strickland, and, goaded by the latter's cynical behaviour, had insisted that he should be turned out. I knew her capable of temper, for all the calmness of her manner; and if Stroeve still refused, she might easily have flung out of the studio with vows never to return. But the little man was so distressed that I could not smile.
 
"My dear fellow, don't be unhappy. She'll come back. You mustn't take very seriously what women say when they're in a passion."
 
"You don't understand. She's in love with Strickland."
 
"What!" I was startled at this, but the idea had no sooner taken possession of me than I saw it was absurd. "How can you be so silly? You don't mean to say you're jealous of Strickland?" I almost laughed. "You know very well that she can't bear the sight of him."
 
"You don't understand," he moaned.
 
"You're an hysterical ass," I said a little impatiently. "Let me give you a whisky-and-soda, and you'll feel better."
 
I supposed that for some reason or other—and Heaven knows what ingenuity men exercise to torment themselves—Dirk had got it into his head that his wife cared for Strickland, and with his genius for blundering he might quite well have offended her so that, to anger him, perhaps, she had taken pains to foster his suspicion.
 
"Look here," I said, "let's go back to your studio. If you've made a fool of yourself you must eat humble pie. Your wife doesn't strike me as the sort of woman to bear malice."
 
"How can I go back to the studio?" he said wearily. "They're there. I've left it to them."
 
"Then it's not your wife who's left you; it's you who've left your wife."
 
"For God's sake don't talk to me like that."
 
Still I could not take him seriously. I did not for a moment believe what he had told me. But he was in very real distress.
 
"Well, you've come here to talk to me about it. You'd better tell me the whole story."
 
"This afternoon I couldn't stand it any more. I went to Strickland and told him I thought he was quite well enough to go back to his own place. I wanted the studio myself."
 
"No one but Strickland would have needed telling," I said. "What did he say?"
 
"He laughed a little; you know how he laughs, not as though he were amused, but as though you were a damned fool, and said he'd go at once. He began to put his things together. You remember I fetched from his room what I thought he needed, and he asked Blanche for a piece of paper and some string to make a parcel."
 
Stroeve stopped, gasping, and I thought he was going to faint. This was not at all the story I had expected him to tell me.
 
"She was very pale, but she brought the paper and the string. He didn't say anything. He made the parcel and he whistled a tune. He took no notice of either of us. His eyes had an ironic smile in them. My heart was like lead. I was afraid something was going to happen, and I wished I hadn't spoken. He looked round for his hat. Then she spoke:
 
"'I'm going with Strickland, Dirk,' she said. 'I can't live with you any more.'
 
"I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Strickland didn't say anything. He went on whistling as though it had nothing to do with him."
 
Stroeve stopped again and mopped his face. I kept quite still. I believed him now, and I was astounded. But all the same I could not understand.
 
Then he told me, in a trembling voice, with the tears pouring down his cheeks, how he had gone up to her, trying to take her in his arms, but she had drawn away and begged him not to touch her. He implored her not to leave him. He told her how passionately he loved her, and reminded her of all the devotion he had lavished upon her. He spoke to her of the happiness of their life. He............