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Business of importance sent Mr. Propbridge to Detroit, and then on to Chicago and Des Moines. On a certain afternoon he caught the Wolverine Limited. Almost before his train had passed One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street Mrs. Propbridge had a caller. She was informed that a member of the staff of that live paper, People You Know, desired to see her for a few minutes. Persons of social consequence or persons who craved to be of social consequence did not often deny themselves to representatives of People You Know. Mrs. Propbridge told the switchboard girl downstairs to tell the hallman to invite the gentleman to come up.

He proved to be a somewhat older man than she had expected to see. He was well dressed enough, but about him was something hard and forbidding, almost formidable in fact. Yet there was a soothing, conciliatory tone in his voice when he spoke.

“Mrs. Propbridge,” he began, “my name is Townsend. I am one of the editors of People You Know. I might have sent one of our reporters to see you, but in a matter so important–and so delicate as this one is–I felt it would be better if I came personally to have a little talk with you and get your side of the affair for publication.”

“My side of what affair?” she asked, puzzled.

He lifted one lip in a cornerwise smile.

“Let me give you a little advice, Mrs. Propbridge,” he said. “I’ve had a lot of experience in such matters as these. The interested parties will be better off if they’re perfectly frank in talking to the press. Then all misunderstandings are avoided and everybody gets a fair deal in print. Don’t you agree with me that I am right?”

“You may be right,” she said, “but I haven’t the least idea what you are talking about.”

“I mean your trouble with your husband–if you force me to speak plainly; I’d like to have your statement, that’s all.”

“But I haven’t had any trouble with my husband!” she said. Her amazement made her voice shrill. “My husband and I are living together in perfect happiness. You’ve made a mistake.”

“No chance,” he said, and suddenly his manner changed from the sympathetic to the accusing. “Mrs. Propbridge, we have exclusive advance information from reliable sources–a straight tip–that the proof against you is about to be turned over to your husband and we’ve every reason to believe that when he gets it in his hands he’s going to sue you for divorce, naming as corespondent a certain middle-aged man. Do you mean to tell me you don’t know anything about that?”

“Of course I mean to! Why, you’re crazy! You’re–“

“Wait just one minute please,” he interrupted the distressed lady. “Wait until I get through telling you how much I know already; then you’ll see that denials won’t help you any. As a matter of fact we’re ready now to go ahead and spring the story in next week’s issue, but I thought it was only fair to come to you and give you a chance to make your defense in print–if you care to make one.”

“I still tell you that you’ve made a terrible mistake,” she declared. Her anger began to stir within her, as indignation succeeded to astonishment. “How dare you come here accusing me of doing anything wrong!”

“I’m accusing you of nothing. I’m only going by the plain evidence. I might be lying to you. Other people might lie to you. But, madam, photographs don’t lie. That’s why they’re the best possible evidence in a divorce court. And I’ve seen the evidence. I’ve got it in my pocket right now.”

“Evidence against me? Photographs of me?”

“Sure. Photographs of you and the gray-haired party.” He reached in a breast pocket and brought out a thin sheaf of unmounted photographs and handed them to her. “Mrs. Propbridge, just take a look at these and then tell me if you blame me for assuming that there’s bound to be trouble when your husband sees them?”