It took place in New York, where he had done well—so well that there were no barriers too high for him. He was thirty-two years old, and, except for one flying trip immediately after the war, he had not been West in seven years. A man named Devlin from Detroit came into his office to see him in a business way, and then and there this incident occurred, and closed out, so to speak, this particular side of his life.

 

"So you're from the Middle West," said the man Devlin with careless curiosity. "That's funny—I thought men like you were probably born and raised on Wall Street. You know—wife of one of my best friends in Detroit came from your city. I was an usher¹ at the wedding."

 

Dexter waited with no apprehension² of what was coming.

 

"Judy Simms," said Devlin with no particular interest; "Judy Jones she was once."

 

"Yes, I knew her." A dull impatience³ spread over him. He had heard, of course, that she was married—perhaps deliberately⁴ he had heard no more.

 

"Awfully⁵ nice girl," brooded Devlin meaninglessly, "I'm sort of sorry for her."

 

"Why?" Something in Dexter was alert, receptive, at once.

 

"Oh, Lud Simms has gone to pieces in a way. I don't mean he ill-uses her, but he drinks and runs around——-"

 

"Doesn't she run around?"

 

"No. Stays at home with her kids."

 

"Oh."

 

"She's a little too old for him," said Devlin.

 

"Too old!" cried Dexter. "Why, man, she's only twenty-seven."

 

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