Every little unrelated incident in Robert's home life fell suddenly into place under suspicion's nimble fingers. Up to that time he had been reasonably sure of the integrity of his hearthstone. Only within those eight weeks had these new symptoms been developing in the conduct of the wife of his bosom, the mother of his little daughter, Betty. Her curiously happy exaltation, her absentmindedness, her long, smiling reveries; the look of flushed excitement on her pretty face, the odd impression of breathlessness; the muttering of strange words in her sleep, followed by bursts of almost ribald laughter. Could it be possible that she was leading a double life, like that other woman?---a life to which he had no latchkey?
What was that devilish thing in "The Cross of Berny"--from Gautier's pen, if he remembered rightly, among those four royal collaborateurs--"To call a woman--my wife! What revolting indiscretion! To call children----" But the thought of little Betty hushed even his mad imaginings.
However, it was his business to fathom all this mystery at once. An idealist was a blind ass--look at Perry!
Penn did not rest well that first night after the problem play, nor for many nights to come.
One morning a question of law came up at the office that made it expedient that one of the firm should go at once to Washington to consult a supreme authority, and Robert was sent, that he might have the benefit of even that small change of scene. He rushed home to throw a few things into a bag and kiss his wife and Betty good-by. He opened the front door with his latchkey as usual, and as usual called out:
There was a low cry, the shuffle of feet across a hardwood floor, the bang of a door closed quickly, and then in a voice toned to sudden _insouciance_ and overdoing it:
He stood frozen stiff for an instant, as his legal experience whispered to him all the possibilities hidden in those few sounds. The main thing was to keep his head! He went to the library and found Helen sitting alone in his own especial chair, peacefully reading Boswell's "Life of Johnson," as he was quick to notice as he passed behind her.
Although her attitude was one of rather sleepy repose, there were signs of a hasty rearrangement of the _mise en scène_, which corroborated the aural evidence which reached him in the hall. Near the door to the reception room was a piece of paper; he slipped on a round "Carteret" pencil as he went to his desk in a silence that he felt that he could not break, without also breaking a few other things.