With his head well forward, he crept up the carpeted stairway. The upper hall light was burning low; from his wife's "sewing room," as it was called, came the sound of voices. The door was ajar, and from the crevice a strong light flooded out into the twilight of the hall.

Now entirely mad with jealousy, he softly glided toward the crack, but before his eyes could further feed his torture, his ears served up a plenitude, in Helen's voice-that dear, clear, sweet voice that had sung his child to sleep and-- "Mr. Stillingfleet-my dear Mr. Stillingfleet, if I may be allowed the liberty--" "My dearest creature," interrupted a deep voice, muffled, almost as if by intent disguised, "if it be a liberty to call me dear, I find myself craving the instant fall of kingdoms.