THE SUNDAY FICTION MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 10, 1916
I
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Vic
Z& JT A
;B1N Mrs. Stannard
w her husband with
a woman in a yellow
bat one night at
Courln's restaurant
she thought she had
solved the mystery
which was -making
her life miserable. Then, watching from
her secluded corner, she had seen a tall,
middle aged man with a brown mustache
walk over to their table and Join them.
Him she recognized. So her husband
had not lied to her, after all, when he
had said that he was going to dine that
evening with John Dupcnt of the acad
emy. And she was further assured when he
observed casually, in their own home
three hours later:
"By the way, Dupont brought his wife
along. DK1 you ever see her?"
"No,", replied Mrs. Stannard.
"Nice looking woman, but a bit flashy.
Had on a lot of yellow stuff. Dupont's
getting to be tiresome. I wished myself
at home with you. What did you do
with yourself all evening?"
She murmured something about read
ing, thereby achieving her second false
hood within sixty seconds.
But though her husband thus stood
acquitted of this particular malfeasance,
the mystery remained. It was not of
long standing. She had married Jona
than Stannard twelve years before, when
he was still an underprofessor at the
university.
Three years later he had become sud
denly famous by his lengthy essay, "The
Now Homer." Others had followed; his
reputation grew and solidified; and since
he was financially independent he had
been able to give up his professorship
and devote himself entirely to writing.
He was a conservative.
Classicism was his sacred word. His
books and lectures were divided Into two
equal parts: appreciations of
the classic and attacks on the
modern; the latter were the
most interesting, for he was a
hard hitter.
ife could belabor the futur
ists or motion pictures or Eu
gene Brieux for S00 pages, with
what effect! Assuredly not in
vain, for he was taken seriously.
As a husband he was as near
perfection as any reasonable
woman could expect. He had
never neglected his wife; for
over eleven years he had even
appeared to continue to love
her, which is admittedly some
thing unusual in the case of a
literary man who hangs around
the house all the time. Indeed,
for any positive act of his to
the contrary, she had every
reason to believe that he loved
her ftill.
But there was the mystery.
Though she had previously
noticed a rather unusual amount
of absence on his part. It had
really begun one January eve
ning some six months before.
After dinner he had appeared
restless, a rare thing with him;
and finally," after an hour of
books picked up and thrown
down again, he had announced
abruptly that he had an ap
pointment at the Century Club.
A hasty kiss and he was gone.
Two hours later, about 11 In
the evening, an important mes
sage had come for him and she
bad telephoned the club, only to
I be told that he had not been
there. That was all very well;
men do change their mind. But
when he returned shortly before mid
night he replied to her question:
"Why, Tve been at the dub, I said I
going there, dldnt If
"That a odd." said Mrs. Stannard. "X
saaaasssssBsxsts
By Rex T. - Stout
Illustrated by R. Tondler
1 IF A WIFE, by devious ways, discovers her husband's j
1 secret vice, should she forgive him and mayhap be- j
1 come a party to it? i
called up to give you Selwyn's message
and they said you hadn't been there all
evening."
"Absurd!" he exclaimed. "Of course
I was there! Why, of course I was there!
If they had only searched properly31 "
But his wife, noting his ill concealed
embarrassment, felt the shadow of doubt
enter her mind. She entertained It mdst
unwillingly, for she was not of a sus
picious nature, and there had been eleven
years of mutual trust to Justify her con
fidence in him; so, she had almost suc
ceeded in obliterating the Incident from
her mind when, a week later, something
happened to remind her of it.
HE HAD taken tickets for them for a
Hofman recital, and at the last mo
ment a headache had put her on her
back, so he had gone alone. The next
morning she bad asked him:
"And how was the new Debussy tone
poem?" "Awful," he replied emphatically,
after a second's hesitation. "The man
has no ears or he couldn't write such
stuff."
And ten minutes later, going through
the morning paper, her eye had fallen on
the following paragraph:
" 'Salammbo,' the now tone
poem by Debussy, which was to have
been rendered for the first time In Amer
ica, was dropped from the program on
account of the late arrival of the manu
script, leaving Mr. Hofman insufficient
time to study the composition. A group
of Chopin was substituted. "
Obviously, her husband had not at
tended the recital at all! Mrs. Stannard
drew her lips together and hid her face
behind the paper to think unseen. Should
she confront him with the evidence of
his falsehood and demand an explana
tion? Yes. No.
If he had lied once, he would lie again.- J
Useless. Better to hide her knowledge
of his guilt. But she found it extremely
difficult to hold her tongue, and it was
with a sigh of relief that she saw the
door close behind him as he went out for
his morning stroll.
Her feeling was chiefly one of dis
comfort, for she could not as yet bring
herself to believe that her husband, Jon
athan Stannard, the man who above all
others stood for rectitude in morals as
well as la art, could be guilty of any
misdeed.
But he had lied she pronounced the
word aloud in order to get a better hold
on it he had lied to her twice within the
week. And now that she thought of It.
he had been absent from the house con
siderably more than usual for the past
month or so.
Tuesday afternoon he had gone out at
2 o'clock and stayed till dinner time with
out saying a word, of where he had been.
v&ednesday evening he had gone out for
a walk after dinner and returned at a
quarter to 11.
Clearly, he was up to something.
That was her first conclusion. After
an hour's reflection she reached her sec
end, and her eyes flashed as she said It
aloud:
"There's a woman In it somewhere.'
Thenceforth she took good care not to
ask where he was going or where he had
been. And he, abandoning a habit close
ly followed for more than eleven years,
did not take the trouble to tell her. His
absences grew more frequent.
Two or three afternoons and as many
evenings each week he would go out and
remain several hours without a word to
her. She suffered considerably, but she
told herself that the only possible course
was to sit and wait In dignified sorrow
for whatever might come.
HEN, on a sudden impulse, she had
gone alone to Oourin's restaurant
one night when he had told her he was to
dine there with John Dupont, the paint
er; and she thought she had discovered
her enemy- in the woman with the yellow
hat, only to find later that she was Du
pont's wife.
But- she resolved to sit and wait no
longer.
Dignity or no dignity, she would find
out who or what it ,was that was taking
her husband away from her. She had
lost six pounds in a month, and her eyes
were acquiring a permanent and unat
tractive redness from frequent tears.
When her husband left the house at t
o'clock the next evening she followed
him. But not very far. At the corner of
Broadway and Eighty-seventh street he
boarded a downtown car, and she stood
helplessly in the middle of the pavement
watching the thing whls out Of .siffht.
The next time, two days later, she had
a taxi ready.
She saw him, a
block ahead, as he
darted Into the sub
way station; but by
tho time she bad
reached the spot and
lenped out and paid
the chauffeur and
- 'ti'
"I am ruined f
grotnted the
stricken man,
sinking into a
chair.
rushed breathlessly down the steps,
a train had gone through and the
platform was empty. '
N Then she awoke to the absurdity
of her course. If she did keen dose
enough to follow hint he would certainly ,
and recognise her.
By now she" was too enraged to cry.
fContimmd on Pag 9j