Mrs. Lancaster walked silently down the dirty street without turning her head or speaking to the preacher, who stepped along a little behind her, his mind full of misgiving.

Mr. Rimmon, perhaps, did as hard thinking in those few minutes as he had ever done during the whole course of his life.  It was a serious and delicate position.  His reputation, his position, perhaps even his profession, depended on the result.  He must sound his companion and placate her at any cost.

“That is one of the saddest spectacles I ever saw,” he began.

To this Mrs. Lancaster vouchsafed no reply.

“She is quite mad.”

“No wonder!”

“Ah, yes.  What do you think of her?”

“That she is Ferdy Wickersham’s wife—­or ought to be.”

“Ah, yes.”  Here was a gleam of light.  “But she is so insane that very little reliance should be placed on anything that she says.  In such instances, you know, women make the most preposterous statements and believe them.  In her condition, she might just as well have claimed me for her husband.”

Mrs. Lancaster recognized this, and looked just a little relieved.  She turned as if about to speak, but shut her lips tightly and walked on to the waiting carriage.  And during the rest of the return home she scarcely uttered a word.

An hour later Ferdy Wickersham was seated in his private office, when
Mr. Rimmon walked in.

Wickersham greeted him with more courtesy than he usually showed him.

“Well,” he said, “what is it?”

“Well, it’s come.”

Wickersham laughed unmirthfully.  “What?  You have been found out?  Which commandment have you been caught violating?”

“No; it’s you,” said Mr. Rimmon, his eyes on Wickersham, with a gleam of retaliation in them.  “Your wife has turned up.”  He was gratified to see Wickersham’s cold face turn white.  It was a sweet revenge.

“My wife!  I have no wife.”  Wickersham looked him steadily in the eyes.

“You had one, and she is in town.”

“I have no wife,” repeated Wickersham, firmly, not taking his eyes from the clergyman’s face.  What he saw there did not satisfy him.  “I have your statement.”

The other hesitated and reflected.

“I wish you would give me that back.  I was in great distress of mind when I gave you that.”

“You did not give it,” said Wickersham.  “You sold it.”  His lip curled.

“I was—­what you said you were when it occurred,” said Mr. Rimmon.  “I was not altogether responsible.”

“You were sober enough to make me carry a thousand shares of weak stock for you till yesterday, when it fell twenty points,” said Wickersham.  “Oh, I guess you were sober enough.”

“She is in town,” said Rimmon, in a dull voice.

“Who says so?”

“I have seen her.”

“Where is she?”—­indifferently.

“She is ill.  She is mad.”