She did not finish the sentence, but rushed into the library and snatched up the morning paper, scanning its every column in the expectation, if not hope, of finding that some horrible disaster had occurred, in which her Thaddeus might have been involved.  The paper disclosed nothing of the sort.  Only a few commonplace murders, the usual assortment of defalcations, baseball prophecies, and political prognostications could Bessie discover therein.  Never, in fact, had the newspaper seemed so uninteresting—­not even a bargain-counter announcement was there—­and with an impatient, petulant stamp of her little foot she threw the journal from her and returned to the dining-room.  It was then half-past eight, and, hardly able to contain herself with excitement, Bessie sat down by the window, and almost, if not quite, counted every swing of the pendulum that pushed the hands of the clock on to the desired hour.  She could not eat, and not until curiosity was gratified as to what it was that had detained Thaddeus, and what, more singular still, was bringing him home instead of sending him to business at nine o’clock in the morning, could she, in fact, do anything.

Finally, the grinding sounds of carriage wheels on the gravel road without were heard, and in an instant Bessie was at the door to welcome the prodigal.  And what a Thaddeus it was that came home that morning!  His eyes showed conclusively that he had had no sleep, save the more or less unsatisfactory napping which suburban residents get on the trains.  His beautiful pearl-gray scarf, that so became him when he left home the previous morning, was not anywhere in sight.  His cheek was scratched, and every button that his vest had ever known had taken wings unto itself and flown, Bessie knew not whither.  And yet, tired out as he was, dishevelled as he was, Thaddeus was not grumpy, but inclined rather to explosive laughter as he entered the house.

“Why, Thaddeus!” cried Bessie, in alarm.  “What on earth is the matter with you?  You look as if you had been in a riot.”

“That’s a pretty good guess, my dear,” returned Thaddeus, with a laugh, “but not quite the right one.”

“But tell me, what have you been doing?  Where have you been?”

“At Bradley’s, my love.”

“You haven’t been—­been quarrelling with Mr. Bradley?”

“No.  Bradley’s jewel has proved your husband’s Waterloo, as well as the Sedan of Bradley himself,” returned Thaddeus, throwing his head back and bursting out into a loud guffaw.

“I am not good at riddles, Thaddeus,” said Bessie, “and I haven’t laughed much myself since that last train came in last night and didn’t bring you.  I think you might tell me—­”

“Why, my dear little girl,” said Thaddeus, walking to her side and kissing her, “I didn’t mean to keep you in suspense, and of course I’ll tell you.”