As The Man staggers into the “night air,” the writer has time—­just a little time, for the modern reader is impatient—­to explain who he is and why he staggers.  He is rich.  That goes without saying.  All clean-limbed men with straight legs are rich.  He owns copper mines in Montana.  All well-tubbed millionaires do.  But he has left them, left everything, because of the Other Man’s Wife.  It was that or madness—­or worse.  He had told himself so a thousand times. (This little touch about “worse” is used in all the stories.  I don’t just understand what the “worse” means.  But snoopopathic readers reach for it with great readiness.) So The Man had come to New York (the only place where stories are allowed to be laid) under an assumed name, to forget, to drive her from his mind.  He had plunged into the mad round of—­I never could find it myself, but it must be there, and as they all plunge into it, it must be as full of them as a sheet of Tanglefoot is of flies.

“As The Man walked home to his hotel, the cool night air steadied him, but his brain is still filled with the fumes of the wine he had drunk.”  Notice these “fumes.”  It must be great to float round with them in one’s brain, where they apparently lodge.  I have often tried to find them, but I never can.  Again and again I have said, “Waiter, bring me a Scotch whisky and soda with fumes.”  But I can never get them.

Thus goes The Man to his hotel.  Now it is in a room in this same hotel that The Woman is sitting, and in which she has crumpled up the telegram.  It is to this hotel that she has come when she left her husband, a week ago.  The readers know, without even being told, that she left him “to work out her own salvation”—­driven, by his cold brutality, beyond the breaking-point.  And there is laid upon her soul, as she sits there with clenched hands, the dust and ashes of a broken marriage and a loveless life, and the knowledge, too late, of all that might have been.

And it is to this hotel that The Woman’s Husband is following her.

But The Man does not know that she is in the hotel, nor that she has left her husband; it is only accident that brings them together.  And it is only by accident that he has come into her room, at night, and stands there—­rooted to the threshold.  Now as a matter of fact, in real life, there is nothing at all in the simple fact of walking into the wrong room of an hotel by accident.  You merely apologise and go out.  I had this experience myself only a few days ago.  I walked right into a lady’s room—­next door to my own.  But I simply said, “Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought this was No. 343.”

“No,” she said, “this is 341.”

She did not rise and “confront” me, as they always do in the snoopopathic stories.  Neither did her eyes flash, nor her gown cling to her as she rose.  Nor was her gown made of “rich old stuff.”  No, she merely went on reading her newspaper.

“I must apologise,” I said.  “I am a little short-sighted, and very often a one and a three look so alike that I can’t tell them apart.  I’m afraid—­”