The Substitute Prisoner | Page 5

her freedom.
Rather than do violence to the tenets of her religious faith and to the
rigid principles of her upbringing, she chose to bear the burden of
unhappiness that was imposed on her. Occasionally she and her
husband even appeared in public together, and on such occasions they
tried to give the impression of entertaining for each other all the
affection of a happily married couple. But in their own home they lived
continuously in a state of mutual aversion and estrangement, occupying
separate apartments and holding only the most formal communications
with each other.
The house which they occupied was a stately stucco structure, situated
on top of a terraced lawn and approached by a gravel walk banked with
flowers and shrubs. A sloping roof, painted a dull red and pierced by a

huge chimney, gave a warm and picturesque tone to the place, which
otherwise might have appeared coldly severe and uninviting.
The luxurious seclusion which the Collinses enjoyed was shared by
about sixty neighbors who formed the wealthy colony of Delmore Park,
a small suburb within easy motoring and commuting distance of New
York. The park itself was an attractive inclosure of some three hundred
acres, surrounded by a fence of high iron palings and laid out so as to
give the impression from within of a natural forest, while, as a matter
of fact, the place was a triumph of the consummate skill of expert
gardeners. In this deliberately fashioned woodland it was possible to
combine all the pomp and extravagance of city life with the rustic
attractiveness and simplicity of the country--a combination toward
which the wealthy are turning in increasing numbers each year.
On the morning following Whitmore's strange nocturnal excursion,
Collins's alarm clock set up an ear-splitting din at a most unwonted
hour. On retiring the previous night Collins had set the alarm for
seven-thirty, an hour at which he usually attained his deepest sleep.
Only on rare occasions was he known to retire before two A. M., and
still rarer were the occasions when he relinquished his bed before
eleven.
A product of the gay night life of the city, he required the mornings for
slumber. Nor did he on this particular morning rouse himself into
immediate activity. Stretching himself languorously, he permitted the
alarm to exhaust itself, then buried his head in his pillow.
But he did not close his eyes. With a painful effort he prevented his
tired eyelids from falling and for half an hour remained stretched
between the sheets, lost in gloomy reflection.
There had been a purpose in setting the alarm at this early hour; the
same purpose now held him awake, absorbed in thought, yet alert to
every sound about the house. He heard the butler unlock the storm
doors and the servants prepare for the morning work. An occasional
delivery wagon ground through the gravel walk, the grating noise of the
wheels rasping his quivering nerves.

Through the open window a stream of sunshine flooded the floor and
distributed itself impartially about the room. The fresh arena of spring
blossoms softened the crisp morning air with a pleasant perfume;
feathered throats chirped happily in pursuit of the early worm.
The swelling chorus of happiness without aroused no responsive quiver
in Collins's heart. It hung within him, a leaden weight coiled with
bitterness and hate. His mind was a blazing furnace of furious
resentment, emitting sparks of rage that kindled other fires in the
storehouse of his emotions, until his temper seemed to reflect the
conflict of all tempers.
The shrill call of a letter-carrier's whistle banished the silent fury into
which he had worked himself. A thrill of expectancy shot down his
frame. Donning his bathrobe and slippers he stepped into the hallway
and listened. The butler and the mail man exchanged a word of greeting,
then the former closed the door. Collins descended the stairs, blinking,
with sleepy dissipated eyes.
"Give me all the mail," he said, extending a tremulous hand.
"There's a letter for madam--"
"Give it to me!"
Reluctantly the butler delivered the letter to him.
"You needn't mention my having received all the mail," Collins
growled. "If madam asks whether there was any mail for her tell her
there wasn't any. And don't forget what I say!"
The butler stared after him as he climbed up the stairs and disappeared
into his own room.
Seated on the edge of his bed, Collins glanced through his personal
mail then tore open the letter to his wife. It was in a familiar
handwriting and the contents brought no look of surprise to his face.
But he read it through half a dozen times, as if to sear it into his

memory.
Presently he dressed and went out for a stroll, drinking copious
draughts of the