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"Only something that he told me that I know is false; but if you must know, I'll tell you what he said...."

On the floor above, Mrs. Peter V. Wilkinson, still in her flowered-silk kimona, received her husband's confidential man.

"Sit there," she directed, pointing to a chair close to the sofa on which now she was reclining, propped up by numberless bright-hued silken pillows.

Flomerfelt did as he was bid, not omitting to kiss the hand that she had extended to him.

"Now, Flomerfelt," she began, an anxious look on a face that was usually expressionless, "I want to know just where I stand in all this. For if there's going to be a crash, I want to know precisely what I've got—that is, how much money?"

Flomerfelt did not answer at once.

"You know," he said slowly, "that it has not been the custom of Peter V. to give money to his wife, rather, I should say, to put money in her name. Like every other business man, he has always needed ready cash, and——"

"But how do I stand?" she interrupted, impatiently. "What have I got? Tell me; I must know."