"Yours with respect,
"An Anonymous Friend."
For some moments after he had finished reading that letter, Jay Gardiner sat like one stunned; then slowly he read it again, as though to take in more clearly its awful meaning.
"Great God!" he cried out; "can this indeed be true?"
If it was, he wondered that he had not noticed it. Then he recollected, with a start of dismay, that since they had been domiciled at the Ocean House he had not spent one hour of his time with Sally that could be spent elsewhere. He had scarcely noticed her; he had not spoken to her more than half a dozen times. He had not only shut her out from his heart, but from himself.
He had told himself over and over again that he would have to shun his wife or he would hate her.
She had seemed satisfied with this so long as she was supplied with money, horses and carriages, laces and diamonds.
Was there any truth in what this anonymous letter stated—that she had so far forgotten the proprieties as to ride with this stranger.
He springs from his seat and paces furiously up and down the length of the room, the veins standing out on his forehead like whip-cords. He forgets that it is almost morning, forgets that he is tired.
He goes straight to his wife's room. He turns the knob, but he can not enter for the door is locked. He knocks, but receives no answer, and turning away, he enters his own apartment again, to wait another hour. Up and down the floor he walks.