It was the first time her husband had used exactly this tone, and Patricia looked at him curiously, then pouted and laughed.

"Jealous!" she laughed, and blowing him a kiss flew upstairs, leaving her husband still looking into the fire. But he did not smile as he usually did when this was her mood, and in her last backward glance Patricia did not fail to notice it. Instead of following her, Mortimer Crabb lit a cigar and went over to his study. Perhaps he should have spoken more severely to Patricia before this. He had been on the point of it a dozen times. Gossip had dealt with Pennington none too kindly, but Crabb didn't believe in gossip and he did believe in his wife.

He finished his cigar and then lit another while he tried to think the matter out, until, at last, Patricia, a pretty vision in braids and lace, came pattering down. He heard the footfalls and felt the soft hands upon his shoulders, but did not turn his head. He knew what was to come and had not the humor or the art to compromise. Patricia, with quick divination, took her hands away and went around by the fire where she could look at her husband.

"Well," she said, half defiantly. Crabb replied without raising his eyes from the fire.

"Patty," he said quietly, "you mustn't ask Mr. Pennington to the house."

Patricia looked at him as though she had not heard aright. But she did not speak.

"You must know," he went on, "that I've been thinking about you and Mr.

Pennington for some time, but I haven't spoken so plainly before. You mustn't be seen with Mr. Pennington again."

He rose and knocked his cigar ashes into the chimney and then turned to face his wife. Patricia's foot was tapping rapidly upon the fender while her figure presented the picture of injured dignity.

"It is preposterous--impossible," she gasped. "I'm going to ride with him to-morrow afternoon."

And then after a pause in which she eagerly scanned her husband's face, she broke forth into a nervous laugh: "Upon my word, Mort, I believe you _are_ jealous."

"Perhaps I am," said Crabb, slowly, "but I'm in earnest, too. Do what I ask, Patricia. Don't ride to-morrow----"

"And if I should refuse----"

Crabb shrugged his broad shoulders and turned away.

"It would be too bad," he said, "that's all."

"But how can you do such a thing," she cried, "without a reason--without any excuse? Why, Heywood has been here every day for----" and then broke off in confusion.

Crabb smiled rather grimly, but he generously pa.s.sed the opportunity by.

"Every reason that I wish--every excuse that I need. Isn't that enough?"

"No, it isn't--I refuse to believe anything about him." Crabb looked at his wife sombrely.

"Then we'd better say no more. Your att.i.tude makes it impossible for me to argue the question. Good-night." He opened the door and stood waiting for her to go out. She hesitated a moment and then swept by him, her very ruffles breathing rebellion.

The next morning he kissed her good-bye when she was reading her mail.

"You'll write him, Patty, won't you?" he said, as he went out.

"Yes--yes," she answered, quickly, "I will--I'll write him."

Patricia did write to him. But it was not at all the sort of a letter that Crabb would have cared to see.

Dear Heywood [it ran], something has happened, so can't ride to-day. Meet me near the arch in Washington Square at three.

Until then-- As ever, P.

CHAPTER XVI

Patricia awoke rudely and with an appalling sense that she had made a shocking fool of herself. Heywood Pennington suddenly vanished out of her life as completely as though Fifth Avenue had opened and swallowed him. Very suddenly he had left New York, they said. And upon her breakfast tray one morning Patricia found the following in a handwriting unfamiliar and evidently disguised:

March 12, 19--

Mrs. Mortimer Crabb,

Dear Madam:

I have in my possession twenty-one letters and notes written by you to Mr. Heywood Pennington, formerly of Philadelphia. Kindly acknowledge receipt of this communication and bring to this office, in person, on Wednesday of next week, five thousand dollars in cash or the letters will be mailed to Mr. Crabb.

(Signed) JOHN DOE, Care of Fairman and Brooke, No. ---- Liberty Street.

There in her fingers it flaunted its brutality. What could it mean? Her letters? To Heywood Pennington? Why--they were only notes--harmless little records of their friendship. What had she said? How had this odious Doe----?

It was a week since she had seen the prodigal. They had quarreled some days ago, for Mr. Pennington's lazy humor had turned to a reckless unconvention which had somewhat startled her. Her secret declaration of independence had led her a little out of her depth, and she began to feel more and more like the child with the jam-pot--only the jam-pot was out of all proportion to real jam-pots and the smears seemed to defy the most generous use of soap and water. This horrible Doe was the neighbor's boy who told, and Mortimer Crabb was suddenly invested with a newly-born parental dignity and wisdom. Mort! It made her shudder to think of her husband receiving those letters. She knew him so well and yet she knew him so little. She felt tempted to throw all else to the winds and make a full confession--of what? of a childish ingenuousness--which confession would magnify a hundred-fold. What had she to confess? Meetings in the Park? Her face burned with shame. It would have seemed less childish if her face had burned with shame at things a little more tangible. Lunches in out-of-the-way restaurants, innocent enough in themselves, whose only pleasure was the knowledge that she took them unpermitted. She knew that she deserved to be stood in the corner or be sent to bed without her supper, but she quailed at the thought of meeting her husband's eye. She knew that he could make it singularly cold and uncompromising.

And the letters. Why hadn't Heywood burned them? And yet why should he have? Pennington's ideas of a compromising position she realized, with some bitterness, differed somewhat from hers. And she knew she _couldn't_ have written anything to regret. She tried to think, and a phrase here and there recurred to her. Perhaps Mort might know her well enough to guess how little they meant--but perhaps he didn't. Words written to another were so desperately easy to misunderstand.

How could these letters have fallen into the hands of a stranger? The more she thought of it the more impenetrable became the mystery. How could this villainous Doe have guessed her ident.i.ty? A few of these letters were signed merely "Patty," but most of them were not signed at all. It was dreadful to be insulted with no redress at any hand. Five thousand dollars! The very insignificance of the figures made her position worse. Was this the value of her reputation? Truly her fortunes had sunk to their lowest ebb. She tried to picture John Doe, a small ferret of a man with heavy eyes, red hair, and a rumpled shirt-front, sitting in a dingy office up three flights of stairs, fingering her little scented notes with his soiled fingers. Oh, it was horrible--horrible! Yet how could she escape? Would she not tarnish her soul still more by paying the wretched money--Mort's money--in forfeit of her disobedience to him? Every instinct revolted at the thought. Wouldn't it be better after all to throw herself upon Mort's mercy? She knew now how much bigger and better he was than anything else in the world.

She loved him now. She knew it. There wouldn't ever be any more might-have-beens. She longed to feel his protecting arms about her and hear his quiet steady voice in her ears, even though it was to scold her for the mere child that she was. His arms seemed the greater sanctuary now--now that she was not sure that they ever could be opened to her.

Still clasping the letter she buried her face in the pillows of her couch and wept. That night she sent down word that she had a headache, but a night's rest did wonders. A cheerful, smiling person descended on Crabb in the midst of his morning coffee.

"What! Patty! At the breakfast table? Will the wonders never cease?"

"I didn't come to breakfast, Mort. I wanted to see you before you went out."

Crabb smiled over the top of his coffee cup.

"What is it, Patty? A hat bill or an opera cloak? I'm prepared. Tell me the awful worst."

"Don't, Mort--please. I can't bear you facetious. It's--er--about Madame Jacquard's bill and some others. They've gotten a little large and she--she wants me to help her out to-day--if I can--if you can--and I told her I would----"

Crabb was wrapped in contemplation of his m.u.f.fin. But he allowed his wife to struggle through to the end. Then he looked up a little seriously from under heavy brows.

"Um--er--how much, Patty? A thousand? I think it can be managed----"

"No, Mort," she interrupted, tremulously, "you see I have had to get so many things of late--we've been going out a great deal you know--a lot of other things you wouldn't understand."

"Oh! Perhaps I might."

"No--I--I'm afraid I've been rather extravagant this winter. I didn't tell you but I--I've used up my allowance long--ever so long ago."

Mortimer Crabb's brows were now really menacing.

"It seems to me----" he began. But she interrupted him at once.