He came into the room smiling.  He was a man of fifty, of strong build, and masculine.  He had good shoulders and good colour, and the eyes, nose, and chin of a man it would be a stupid thing to attempt to deal with in a blackguardly manner.  He sat down in his chair by the fire and began to chat, as was his habit before he and his wife parted to dress for dinner.  When he was out during the day he often looked forward to these chats, and made notes of things he would like to tell his Mary.  During her day, which was given to feminine duties and pleasures, she frequently did the same thing.  Between seven and eight in the evening they had delightful conversational opportunities.  He picked up her book and glanced it over, he asked her a few questions and answered a few; but she saw it was with a somewhat preoccupied manner.  She knew a certain remote look in his eye, and she waited to see him get up from his chair and begin to walk to and fro, with his hands in his pockets and his head thrown back.  When, after having done this, he began in addition to whistle softly and draw his eyebrows together, she broke in upon him in the manner of merely following an established custom.

“I am perfectly sure,” was her remark, “that you have come upon one of the Extraordinary Cases.”

The last two words were spoken as with inverted commas.  Of many deep interests he added to her existence, the Extraordinary Cases were among the most absorbing.  He had begun to discuss them with her during the first year of their married life.  Accident had thrown one of them into her immediate personal experience, and her clear-headed comprehension and sympathy in summing up singular evidence had been of such value to him that he had turned to her in the occurrence of others for the aid straightforward, mutual logic could give.  She had learned to await the Extraordinary Case with something like eagerness.  Sometimes, it was true, its incidents were painful; but invariably they were absorbing in their interest, and occasionally illuminating beyond description.  Of names and persons it was not necessary she should hear anything—­the drama, the ethics, were enough.  With an absolute respect for his professional reserves, she asked no questions he could not reply to freely, and avoided even the innocent following of clues.  The Extraordinary Case was always quite enough as it stood.  When she saw the remotely speculative look in his eye, she suspected one, when he left his chair and paced the floor with that little air of restlessness, and ended with unconscious whistling which was scarcely louder than a breath, she felt that evidence enough had accumulated for her.

He stopped and turned round.

“My good Mary,” he owned at once, “its extraordinariness consists in its baffling me by being so perfectly ordinary.”

“Well, at least that is not frequent.  What is its nature?  Is it awful?  Is it sad?  Is it eccentric?  Is it mad or sane, criminal or domestic?”