THE YELLOW CLAW. Sax Rohmer

was marching to its end.

      Helen turned her head aside, inhaling deeply, and striving for

      composure.

      “Garnham shall come down and tidy up for you,” she said, quietly; “and

      you must dine with us.”

      The outer door was noisily closed by the departing servants.

      “You are much too good,” whispered Leroux, again; and the weary eyes

      glistened with a sudden moisture. “Thank you! Thank you! But--er--I

      could not dream of disturbing”...

      “Mr. Leroux,” said Helen, with all her old firmness--“Garnham is coming

      down IMMEDIATELY to put the place in order! And, whilst he is doing so,

      you are going to prepare yourself for a decent, Christian dinner!”

      Henry Leroux rested one hand upon the table, looking down at the

      carpet. He had known for a long time, in a vague fashion, that he lacked

      something; that his success--a wholly inartistic one--had yielded him

      little gratification; that the comfort of his home was a purely monetary

      product and not in any sense atmospheric. He had schooled himself to

      believe that he liked loneliness--loneliness physical and mental, and

      that in marrying a pretty, but pleasure-loving girl, he had insured an

      ideal menage. Furthermore, he honestly believed that he worshiped

      his wife; and with his present grief at her unaccountable silence was

      mingled no atom of reproach.

      But latterly he had begun to wonder--in his peculiarly indefinite way

      he had begun to doubt his own philosophy. Was the void in his soul a

      product of thwarted ambition?--for, whilst he slaved, scrupulously, upon

      “Martin Zeda,” he loathed every deed and every word of that Old Man of

      the Sea. Or could it be that his own being--his nature of Adam--lacked

      something which wealth, social position, and Mira, his wife, could not

      yield to him?

      Now, a new tone in the voice of Helen Cumberly--a tone different from

      that compound of good-fellowship and raillery, which he knew--a tone

      which had entered into it when she had exclaimed upon the state of the

      room--set his poor, anxious heart thrumming like a lute. He felt a hot

      flush creeping upon him; his forehead grew damp. He feared to raise his

      eyes.

      “Is that a bargain?” asked Helen, sweetly.

      Henry Leroux found a lump in his throat; but he lifted his untidy head

      and took the hand which the girl had extended to him. She smiled a bit

      unnaturally; then every tinge of color faded from her cheeks, and Henry

      Leroux, unconsciously holding the white hand in a vice-like grip, looked

      hungrily into the eyes grown suddenly tragic whilst into his own came

      the light of a great and sorrowful understanding.

      “God bless you,” he said. “I will do anything you wish.”

      Helen released her hand, turned, and ran from the study. Not until she

      was on the landing did she dare to speak. Then:--

      “Garnham shall come down immediately. Don't be late for dinner!” she

      called--and there was a hint of laughter and of tears in her voice, of

      the restraint of culture struggling with rebellious womanhood.