"Isn't it?" agreed the colonel. "And it takes all sorts of persons to
make it up. I'm sorry I can't offer any explanation as to why your
client wouldn't accept money when she had a perfect right to it.
However, as you won your case I suppose it doesn't so much matter."

"Not a great deal. Still I would like to know. There will be a
sensation when this comes out."

And there was, when Daley, of the _Times_, scooped the other reporters
and sprang his sensational story of the separation of the Larchs, the
case having been heard in camera by the vice chancellor.

The murder of Mrs. Darcy had, some time ago, been shifted off the front
page, though it would get back there when the young jeweler was tried.
As for the killing of Shere Ali, that occasioned only passing interest,
the murdered man not being well known.

But the separation of Mr. and Mrs. Larch was different. The finely
appointed hotel kept by Larch, called the "Homestead," from the name of
an old inn of Colonial days which it replaced, was known for miles
around. It had a double reputation, so to speak. Though it had a
grill, in which, nightly, there gathered such of the "sports" of
Colchester as cared for that form of entertainment, the Homestead also
catered to gatherings of a more refined nature. Grave, and even
reverend, conventions assembled in its ballroom, and politicians of the
upper, if not better, class were frequently seen in its dining-room or
cafe. Being convenient to the courthouse, nearly all the judges and
lawyers took lunch there. The place was also the scene of more or less
important political dinners of the state, at which matters in no slight
degree affecting national policies were often whipped into shape.

Larch himself was a peculiar character. In a smaller place he would
have been called a saloon keeper. Going a little higher up the scale
in population he might have been designated as a hotel proprietor. But
in Colchester, which was rather unique among cities, he was looked up
to as one of the substantial citizens of the place, for he owned the
Homestead, where Washington, when it was a wayside inn, had stopped one
night--at least such was the rumor--and families socially prominent,
some of whose members had very strong views on prohibition, did not
hesitate to attend balls given at the hotel.

And it was this man, rich, it was said, handsome certainly, that
Cynthia Ratchford had married. There had been other lovers whom she
might have wedded, it was rumored, and more than one had remarked:

"Why did she take him?"

To this was the answer--whispered:

"Money!"

And, in a way, it was true. The family of Cynthia Larch--at least her
mother--was socially ambitious, and she saw that if her daughter became
the wife of Langford Larch his wealth, combined with her own family
connections, would give her a chance not only to shine in the way she
desired, but to eclipse some satellites who had outshone her in the
social firmament. She also saw an opportunity of paying old debts and
reaping some revenges.

All of this she had done, in a measure. After the marriage, which was
a brilliant and gay one, if not happy, the Larch hotel--it could hardly
be called a home--became the scene of many festive occasions. A number
of entertainments were given, remarkable for the brilliant and
effective dresses of the women, the multiplicity and richness of the
food, and the variety of the wines.

Langford Larch could not himself be called a drinking man.
Occasionally, as almost perforce he had to, he drank a little wine.
But he was never noticeably drunk. Nor was that side of his business
ever accentuated.

Gradually there had come about little whispers that Cynthia Larch had
made a mistake in her marriage. There was little that was
tangible--mere gossip--a hint that she would have been happier with
some one else, though he had not so much money as had Larch.

The rumors floated about a bit, seemed to sink, and then started off at
full steam just before the news of the separation became public. Then
it was said of Larch that, soon after the echoes of the wedding chimes
had died away, he had begun to treat his wife with refined
cruelty--that hidden away from the public, underneath his habitual
manner, there was the rawness of the brute.

But, for a time, the entertainments were kept up, and Cynthia, lovelier
than ever, presided at her husband's table, graced it with her
presence, and laughed and smiled at the men and women who came to
partake of their lavish hospitality.

But it was noticed that the older and more conservative families were
less often represented, and, when they were, it was by some of the
younger members, whose reputations were already smirched or who had not
yet acquired any, and were willing to "take a chance."

And, also, old friends of Mrs. Larch observed that the smile did not
long linger on her face. And that behind the laughter in her eyes was
the shadow of a skeleton at the feast. Then came the legal separation
and the parting. Mrs. Larch, resuming, her maiden name, it was
announced, had gone to a quiet place to rest.



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