"He has come; he will be up directly," I answered.
"Keep still as a mouse," she whispered, "I am going to play a trick on him. Don't tell where I am—hush!" as a step sounded on the stair.
She turned and fled noiselessly into an alcove of the hall.
Staniels came rather slowly up the stairs. I thought he was deliberating what kind of a reception might greet him, fearing, perhaps, tears, pouts or frowns.
But I, seeing the merry, peeping face, knew that the matter to which he was probably keenly sensible was utterly disregarded by the sweet, healthy nature of his wife.
He entered the room, closed the door. All was silent after he crossed the floor. Say tiptoed down the hall and stood listening, her head with its glossy waves of chestnut hair bent, her red lips parted, her cheek dimpling.
Suddenly we heard the report of a pistol. She started bewildered. I leaped from my seat, and sprang past her into the room. Staniels lay dead on the floor, shot through the heart. Beside him lay the innocent paper which had caused the deed.
It was a little note saying:
"You do not love me. I have gone away. Good-by. Say."
The cheat had been too certain. With a sore conscience, and a heart in which memories of a hidden past had probably rankled all day, the husband had been thoroughly duped. The thoughts that rushed upon him maddened him; the first act was self-destruction.