I shall have to confess that through all of the thirty years of our married life my wife has clung to the belief that I am a bit of a dog.  Thirty years of exemplary living have not affected this conviction, nor had Herbert’s foolish remark earlier in the evening helped matters.  But she watched me put on my overcoat without further comment.  When I kissed her good-night, however, she turned her cheek.

The street, with its open spaces, was a relief after the dark hall.  I started for Sperry’s house, my head bent against the wind, my mind on the news I had just heard.  Was it, I wondered, just possible that we had for some reason been allowed behind the veil which covered poor Wells’ last moments?  And, to admit that for a moment, where would what we had heard lead us?  Sperry had said he had killed himself.  But—­suppose he had not?

I realize now, looking back, that my recollection of the other man in the triangle is largely colored by the fact that he fell in the great war.  At that time I hardly knew him, except as a wealthy and self-made man in his late thirties; I saw him now and then, in the club playing billiards or going in and out of the Wells house, a large, fastidiously dressed man, strong featured and broad shouldered, with rather too much manner.  I remember particularly how I hated the light spats he affected, and the glaring yellow gloves.

A man who would go straight for the thing he wanted, woman or power or money.  And get it.

Sperry was waiting on his door-step, and we went on to the Wells house.  What with the magnitude of the thing that had happened, and our mutual feeling that we were somehow involved in it, we were rather silent.  Sperry asked one question, however, “Are you certain about the time when Miss Jeremy saw what looks like this thing?”

“Certainly.  My watch fell at five minutes after nine.  When it was all over, and I picked it up, it was still going, and it was 9:30.”

He was silent for a moment.  Then: 

“The Wellses’ nursery governess telephoned for me at 9:35.  We keep a record of the time of all calls.”

Sperry is a heart specialist, I think I have said, with offices in his house.

And, a block or so farther on:  “I suppose it was bound to come.  To tell the truth, I didn’t think the boy had the courage.”

“Then you think he did it?”

“They say so,” he said grimly.  And added,—­irritably:  “Good heavens, Horace, we must keep that other fool thing out of our minds.”

“Yes,” I agreed.  “We must.”

Although the Wells house was brilliantly lighted when we reached it, we had difficulty in gaining admission.  Whoever were in the house were up-stairs, and the bell evidently rang in the deserted kitchen or a neighboring pantry.

“We might try the servants’ entrance,” Sperry said.  Then he laughed mirthlessly.

“We might see,” he said, “if there’s a key on the nail among the vines.”