“It—it was five years ago，” said Mr. Brede， hurriedly. “I—Ididn’t tell you—when I was on the other side， you know—itwas rather dangerous—well， as I was saying—it looked—oh，it didn’t look at all like this.”
A cloud floated overhead， throwing its great shadow overthe field where we lay. The shadow passed over the mountain’sbrow and reappeared far below， a rapidly decreasing blot，flying eastward over the golden green. My wife and Iexchanged glances once more.
Somehow， the shadow lingered over us all. As we wenthome， the Bredes went side by side along the narrow path， andmy wife and I walked together.
“Should you think，” she asked me， “that a man would climbthe Matterhorn the very first year he was married？”
“I don’t know， my dear，” I answered， evasively； “this isn’tthe first year I have been married， not by a good many， and Iwouldn’t climb it—for a farm.”
“You know what I mean，” she said.
I did.
* * * * *
When we reached the boarding-house， Mr. Jacobus took measide.
“You know，” he began his discourse， “my wife she uset tolive in N’York！”
I didn’t know， but I said “Yes.”
“She says the numbers on the streets runs criss-cross-like.
Thirty-four’s on one side o’ the street an’ thirty-five on t’other.
How’s that？”
“That is the invariable rule， I believe.”
“Then—I say—these here new folk that you ‘n’ your wifeseem so mighty taken up with—d’ye know anything about‘em？”
“I know nothing about the character of your boarders， Mr.
Jacobus，” I replied， conscious of some irritability. “If I chooseto associate with any of them—”
“Jess so—jess so！” broke in Jacobus. “I hain’t nothin’ to sayag"inst yer sosherbil’ty. But do ye know them？”
“Why， certainly not，” I replied.
“Well—that was all I wuz askin’ ye. Ye see， when he comehere to take the rooms—you wasn’t here then—he told mywife that he lived at number thirty-four in his street. An’
yistiddy she told her that they lived at number thirty-five. Hesaid he lived in an apartment-house. Now there can’t be noapartment-house on two sides of the same street， kin they？”
“What street was it？” I inquired， wearily.
“Hundred ‘n’ twenty-first street.”
“May be，” I replied， still more wearily. “That’s Harlem.
Nobody knows what people will do in Harlem.”
I went up to my wife’s room.
“Don’t you think it’s queer？” she asked me.
“I think I’ll have a talk with that young man tonight，” I said，“and see if he can give some account of himself.”
“But， my dear，” my wife said， gravely， “she doesn’t knowwhether they’ve had the measles or not.”
“Why， Great Scott！” I exclaimed， “they must have had themwhen they were children.”
“Please don’t be stupid，” said my wife. “I meant their children.”
After dinner that night—or rather， after supper， for we haddinner in the middle of the day at Jacobus’s—I walked downthe long verandah to ask Brede， who was placidly smoking atthe other end， to accompany me on a twilight stroll. Half waydown I met Major Halkit.
“That friend of yours，” he said， indicating the unconsciousfigure at the further end of the house， “seems to be a queersort of a Dick. He told me that he was out of business， and justlooking round for a chance to invest his capital. And I’ve beentelling him what an everlasting big show he had to take stockin the Capitoline Trust Company—starts next month—fourmillion capital—I told you all about it. ‘Oh， well，’ he says， ‘let’swait and think about it.’ ‘Wait！’ says I， ‘the Capitoline TrustCompany won’t wait for you， my boy. This is letting you inon the ground floor，’ says I， ‘and it’s now or never.’ ‘Oh， let itwait，’ says he. I don’t know what’s into the man.”
“I don’t know how well he knows his own business， Major，”
I said as I started again for Brede’s end of the veranda. ButI was troubled none the less. The Major could not haveinfluenced the sale of one share of stock in the CapitolineCompany. But that stock was a great investment； a rare chancefor a purchaser with a few thousand dollars. Perhaps it wasno more remarkable that Brede should not invest than that Ishould not—and yet， it seemed to add one circumstance moreto the other suspicious circumstances.
* * * * *
When I went upstairs that evening， I found my wife puttingher hair to bed—I don’t know how I can better describe anoperation familiar to every married man. I waited until the lasttress was coiled up， and then I spoke：
“I’ve talked with Brede，” I said， “and I didn’t have tocatechize him. He seemed to feel that some sort of explanationwas looked for， and he was very outspoken. You were rightabout the children—that is， I must have misunderstood him.
There are only two. But the Matterhorn episode was simpleenough. He didn’t realize how dangerous it was until hehad got so far into it that he couldn’t back out； and he didn’ttell her， because he’d left her here， you see， and under thecircumstances—”
“Left her here！” cried my wife. “I’ve been sitting with herthe whole afternoon， sewing， and she told me that he left herat Geneva， and came back and took her to Basle， and the babywas born there—now I’m sure， dear， because I asked her.”
“Perhaps I was mistaken when I thought he said she was onthis side of the water，” I suggested， with bitter， biting irony.
“You poor dear， did I abuse you？” said my wife. “But， doyou know， Mrs. Tabb said that she didn’t know how manylumps of sugar he took in his coffee. Now that seems queer，doesn’t it？”
It did. It was a small thing. But it looked queer， Very queer.