She was a little beside herself, for the first time in her life shocked out of a deadly calm.

He paused and looked at her for a moment in his direct, examining way, his hard commercial business judgment restored on the instant.

“That would be a confession of guilt, Lillian, and I’m not guilty,” he replied, almost coldly.  “I haven’t done anything that warrants my running away or going to prison, either.  I’m merely going there to save time at present.  I can’t be litigating this thing forever.  I’ll get out—­be pardoned out or sued out in a reasonable length of time.  Just now it’s better to go, I think.  I wouldn’t think of running away from Philadelphia.  Two of five judges found for me in the decision.  That’s pretty fair evidence that the State has no case against me.”

His wife saw she had made a mistake.  It clarified her judgment on the instant.  “I didn’t mean in that way, Frank,” she replied, apologetically.  “You know I didn’t.  Of course I know you’re not guilty.  Why should I think you were, of all people?”

She paused, expecting some retort, some further argument—­a kind word maybe.  A trace of the older, baffling love, but he had quietly turned to his desk and was thinking of other things.

At this point the anomaly of her own state came over her again.  It was all so sad and so hopeless.  And what was she to do in the future?  And what was he likely to do?  She paused half trembling and yet decided, because of her peculiarly nonresisting nature—­why trespass on his time?  Why bother?  No good would really come of it.  He really did not care for her any more—­that was it.  Nothing could make him, nothing could bring them together again, not even this tragedy.  He was interested in another woman—­Aileen—­and so her foolish thoughts and explanations, her fear, sorrow, distress, were not important to him.  He could take her agonized wish for his freedom as a comment on his probable guilt, a doubt of his innocence, a criticism of him!  She turned away for a minute, and he started to leave the room.

“I’ll be back again in a few moments,” he volunteered.  “Are the children here?”

“Yes, they’re up in the play-room,” she answered, sadly, utterly nonplussed and distraught.

“Oh, Frank!” she had it on her lips to cry, but before she could utter it he had bustled down the steps and was gone.  She turned back to the table, her left hand to her mouth, her eyes in a queer, hazy, melancholy mist.  Could it be, she thought, that life could really come to this—­that love could so utterly, so thoroughly die?  Ten years before—­but, oh, why go back to that?  Obviously it could, and thoughts concerning that would not help now.  Twice now in her life her affairs had seemed to go to pieces—­once when her first husband had died, and now when her second had failed her, had fallen in love with another and was going to be sent off to prison.  What was it about her that caused such things?  Was there anything