“More than that, he arrived to-day at the boarding-house where I am staying, greeted me with a theatrical start, and claimed me—as his wife. She stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand. ‘Scream and you are dead,’ he snapped, and released her mouth so that he might open the door. She wore a black satin dress, a little shiny at the seams, a purposeless bow of white tulle at the back of her neck, and a huge chatelaine. All they left it was the moon and stars. I shall not part with you again. Her tone was icy. “Unless you have an appointment, which you haven’t,” he said, “you’ll only waste your time here. Thank him, not me, man. She returned home to the Beck house soaked and soggy. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. “Diedermayer’s a kiss-ass. Madame Valade was that kind of woman. The small predator subconsciously acknowledged the larger one.
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