I stood by the prosaic telephone instrument and looked into the darkened recesses of the passage.  It seemed to my disordered nerves that back of the coats and wraps that hung on the rack, beyond the heavy curtains, in every corner, there lurked vague and shadowy forms, invisible when I stared, but advancing a trifle from their obscurity when, by turning my head and looking ahead, they impinged on the extreme right or left of my field of vision.

I was shocked by the news, but not greatly grieved.  The Wellses had been among us but not of us, as I have said.  They had come, like gay young comets, into our orderly constellation, trailing behind them their cars and servants, their children and governesses and rather riotous friends, and had flashed on us in a sort of bright impermanence.

Of the two, I myself had preferred Arthur.  His faults were on the surface.  He drank hard, gambled, and could not always pay his gambling debts.  But underneath it all there had always been something boyishly honest about him.  He had played, it is true, through most of the thirty years that now marked his whole life, but he could have been made a man by the right woman.  And he had married the wrong one.

Of Elinor Wells I have only my wife’s verdict, and I have found that, as is the way with many good women, her judgments of her own sex are rather merciless.  A tall, handsome girl, very dark, my wife has characterized her as cold, calculating and ambitious.  She has said frequently, too, that Elinor Wells was a disappointed woman, that her marriage, while giving her social identity, had disappointed her in a monetary way.  Whether that is true or not, there was no doubt, by the time they had lived in our neighborhood for a year, that a complication had arisen in the shape of another man.

My wife, on my return from my office in the evening, had been quite likely to greet me with: 

“Horace, he has been there all afternoon.  I really think something should be done about it.”

“Who has been where?” I would ask, I am afraid not too patiently.

“You know perfectly well.  And I think you ought to tell him.”

In spite of her vague pronouns, I understood, and in a more masculine way I shared her sense of outrage.  Our street has never had a scandal on it, except the one when the Berringtons’ music teacher ran away with their coachman, in the days of carriages.  And I am glad to say that that is almost forgotten.

Nevertheless, we had realized for some time that the dreaded triangle was threatening the repute of our quiet neighborhood, and as I stood by the telephone that night I saw that it had come.  More than that, it seemed very probable that into this very triangle our peaceful Neighborhood Club had been suddenly thrust.

My wife accepted my excuse coldly.  She dislikes intensely the occasional outside calls of my profession.  She merely observed, however, that she would leave all the lights on until my return.  “I should think you could arrange things better, Horace,” she added.  “It’s perfectly idiotic the way people die at night.  And tonight, of all nights!”