At the gate stood Gladys’ car. I rushed into the house, but there was no one on the lower floor, nor in Gladys’ room, nor mine. I was about to descend the stairs when I heard a low laugh—a man’s laugh—from the third floor. I dashed up there and stood gazing at the closed door of the spare room.
“What’s the idea, running away from me?” asked the man. “You can’t blow hot and cold with me.”
“I told you not to come here again. It’s not safe.”
“I’m not afraid of that husband of yours. You’re mine, and you’re going to stay mine.”
I had listened intently, but could not recognize the man’s voice.
“Go now,” pleaded Gladys, “and I’ll come to your rooms this evening.”
“Not on your life! I’m here now, and I am going to stay.”
“Let go of me—you are hurting my shoulder.”
There was a sound of scuffing. I tried the door. It was locked. I put my shoulder to it. The lock snapped.
Gladys gave a cry, leaped away from the man—a man whom I had never seen before. The full-lipped, black-browed type, big, soft. As I took in the scene—the tousled woman, the flushed-faced man—a great wave of disgust almost overwhelmed me.