I could only look at him.
After a little he dropped his hands, leaned back on the pillow, and gazed at me.
“You're blaming me,” he said.
I shook my head.
“You are. But not so much as you will. Do you know what I'm doing out here? Do you suppose I left my business to come halfway around the world on a pleasure trip—at my age? Chuck everything worth while, just when I'm at the top of my stride? No, you don't know; but I'm going to tell you.”
I put up my hand, but he plunged gloomily on: “My wife eloped with a man. A man I knew. They came out here. I've come to find them. I'm going to kill him and her. With a knife.”
“You must not do that,” said I. I recall now that the thought came to me to deal with him as if he were a lunatic, and humor him. So I said, “You must not do that.”
“It is the only thing to do,” said he, rather dogmatically. “How can I face my friends again if I fail? A man who doesn't even try to protect his home!”
“It would be murder.”
He shook his head. “No honest jury would hang me for that. It is the unwritten law.” Then, as if conscious of the weakness of his argument, he added: “Besides, what difference does it make? Those two have committed worse than murder against me. It does n't matter a particle now what becomes of me. I loved my wife. I gave her everything that money could buy. I bought her an automobile for her own only last year. I took her to Europe. And when I married her she had never had anything or been anywhere. I wanted her to be the mistress of my home, and she insisted on sacrificing all that—and me—to her music. So I got her the best teachers in New York and Paris. Even left her in Paris to study. That's where she met him. She insisted on going into opera. I forbade that—naturally. I wanted children—she refused. Tell me—is that asking too much?”
He had been talking in a monotonous tone; but now his voice began rising, and his face was twitching nervously.
“Is it?” he went on. “Is it asking too much for a husband to have
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