Norman gave Tetlow a look that made him redden with pleasure.  “No, I don’t, old man,” said he.  “I know you recommended me—­and that they were shy of me because of the way I’ve been acting—­and that you stood sponsor for me.  Isn’t that right?”

“Something like that,” admitted Tetlow.  “But they were eager to get you.  It was only a question of trusting you.  I was able to do you a good turn there.”

“And I’ll make a rich man, and a famous one, of you,” said Norman.

“Yes.  I believe you will,” cried Tetlow, tears in his prominent studious eyes.  “I’ll see those people in a day or two, and let you know.  Do you need money right away?  Of course you do.”  And down he sat and drew a check for fifteen hundred dollars.

Norman laughed as he glanced to see if it was correctly drawn.  “I’d not have dared return to my bride with empty pockets.  That’s what it means to live in New York.”

Tetlow grinned.  “A sentimental town, isn’t it?  Especially the women.”

“Oh, I don’t blame them,” said Norman.  “They need the money, and the only way they’ve got of making it is out of sentiment.  And you must admit they give a bully good quality, if the payment is all right.”

Tetlow shrugged his shoulders.  “I’m glad I don’t need them,” said he.  “It gives me the creeps to see them gliding about with their beautiful dresses and their sweet, soft faces.”

He and Norman lunched together in an out-of-the way restaurant.  After a busy and a happy afternoon, Norman returned early to the hotel.  He had cashed his check.  He was in funds.  He would give her another and more thrilling taste of the joy that was to be hers through him—­and soon she would be giving even as she got—­for he would teach her not to fear love, not to shrink from it, but to rejoice in it and to let it permeate and complete all her charms.

He ascended to the apartment and knocked.  There was no answer.  He searched in vain for a chambermaid to let him in.  He descended to the office.  “Oh, Mr. Norman,” said one of the clerks.  “Your wife left this note for you.”

Norman took it.  “She went out?”

“About three o’clock—­with a young gentleman who called on her.  They came back a while ago and she left the note.”

“Thank you,” said Norman.  He took his key, went up to the apartment.  Not until he had closed and locked the door did he open the note.  He read: 

  “Last night you broke your promise.  So I am going away.  Don’t look for
  me.  It won’t be any use.  When I decide what to do I’ll send you word.”

He was standing at the table.  He tossed the note on the marble, threw open the bedroom door.  The black chiffon dress, the big plumed hat, and all the other articles they had bought were spread upon the bed, arranged with the obvious intention that he should see at a glance she had taken nothing away with her.

“Hell!” he said aloud.  “Why didn’t I let her go yesterday morning?”