There's a sporting parson, quite a swell, in the office here who's gone
on Mrs. A., and I'm inclined to hope she is on him. Anyway, the Doc.
left in a hurry after some sort of a row over a month ago, and hasn't
written a line to his wife since. She's as cool as a cucumber about it
and handed me a hot one right off the bat about poor old Doc.'s having
gone away for a rest _a few days ago_. I've drawn cards and am going
to sit in the game, unless you wire me to come home, for I smell a large,
fat, front-page exclusive, which will jar the sensitive slats of some of
our first families both here and in dear old London.

Yours,
SIMPKINS.


He hesitated a few minutes before he mailed the letter. He really did
not want to do anything to involve _her_ in a scandal, but, after
all, it was simply anticipating the inevitable, and--he pulled himself
up short and put the letter in the box. He could not afford any mawkish
sentiment in this.

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