own doorway he rushed upstairs to his office, hastily unlocked it, and ran to the window.  The lady was already crossing the street.  He saw her pause before the door of the opposite house, open it with a latchkey, and caught a full view of her profile in the single moment that she turned to furl her umbrella and enter.  It was his wife’s voice he had heard; it was his wife’s face that he had seen in profile.

Yet she was changed from the lanky young schoolgirl he had wedded ten years ago, or, at least, compared to what his recollection of her had been.  Had he ever seen her as she really was?  Surely somewhere in that timid, freckled, half-grown bride he had known in the first year of their marriage the germ of this self-possessed, matured woman was hidden.  There was the tone of her voice; he had never recalled it before as a lover might, yet now it touched him; her profile he certainly remembered, but not with the feeling it now produced in him.  Would he have ever abandoned her had she been like that?  Or had he changed, and was this no longer his old self?—­perhaps even a self she would never recognize again?  James Smith had the superstitions of a gambler, and that vague idea of fate that comes to weak men; a sudden fright seized him, and he half withdrew from the window lest she should observe him, recognize him, and by some act precipitate that fate.

By lingering beyond the usual hour for his departure he saw her again, and had even a full view of her face as she crossed the street.  The years had certainly improved her; he wondered with a certain nervousness if she would think they had done the same for him.  The complacency with which he had at first contemplated her probable joy at recovering him had become seriously shaken since he had seen her; a woman as well preserved and good-looking as that, holding a certain responsible and, no doubt, lucrative position, must have many admirers and be independent.  He longed to tell her now of his fortune, and yet shrank from the test its exposure implied.  He waited for her return until darkness had gathered, and then went back to his lodgings a little chagrined and ill at ease.  It was rather late for her to be out alone!  After all, what did he know of her habits or associations?  He recalled the freedom of Californian life, and the old scandals relating to the lapses of many women who had previously led blameless lives in the Atlantic States.  Clearly it behooved him to be cautious.  Yet he walked late that night before the house again, eager to see if she had returned, and with whom?  He was restricted in his eagerness by the fear of detection, but he gathered very little knowledge of her habits; singularly enough nobody seemed to care.  A little piqued at this, he began to wonder if he were not thinking too much of this woman to whom he still hesitated to reveal himself.  Nevertheless, he found himself that night again wandering around the house, and even watching with some anxiety