He went up to the first landing, not knowing why, then roamed aimlessly through, wandering from room to room, idly, looking on familiar things as though they were strange--strange, but uninteresting.
Upstairs and down, in, around, and about he drifted, quiet as a cat, avoiding only his wife's bedroom.

He had never entered it since their marriage; he did not care to do so now, though the door stood wide.

And, indifferent, he turned without even a glance, and traversing the hall, descended the stairs to the library.
For a while he sat there, legs crossed, drumming thoughtfully on his boot with his riding-crop; and after a while he dragged the chair forward and picked up a pen.
"Why not ?" he said aloud; "it will save railroad fare--and she'll need it all." So, to his lawyer in New York he wrote: "I won't come to town after all.

You have my letter and you know what I want done.

Nobody is likely to dispute the matter, and it won't require a will to make my wife carry out the essence of the thing." And signed his name.
When he had sealed and directed the letter he could find no stamp; so he left it on the table.
"That's the usual way they find such letters," he said, smiling to himself as the thought struck him.