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Denton slept until noon. He showered and shaved, got into robe and slippers, and went to the kitchen. He noticed as he passed Angel’s open doorway that her bed was empty.
    She was not in the kitchen, either. Must be in her bathroom, he decided, and put a pot of coffee on the range, then stepped out onto the front porch for the Sunday paper. There were traces of last night’s storm in the street, but it was drying rapidly under a strong sun.
    This time something made him pause before her bedroom door. Something was wrong. Then he knew what it was. There was dead silence from her bathroom. He went into the bedroom and opened the bathroom door and looked in. She was not there.
    That was when he saw the note lying on her pillow.
    She had written it very carefully on a sheet of her best stationery in her best grade-school handwriting:
    Dear James, I am leaving you and Ridgemore for good and please don’t try to find me. I will write letting you know where to ship the rest of my things.
    Angel
    Rather to his surprise, the note made him angry. To sneak off in the middle of the night without even discussing divorce plans! What the devil was she going to do, hang him up? He crushed the note, slammed it into the wastebasket near her vanity and began to check her closet and her dresser drawers.
    Both closet and dresser bulged with clothes.
    At first Denton was puzzled. She could not have taken much with her; certainly most of her dresses and coats and lingerie were still here.
    He poked about at the rear of the closet. She owned a set of matched airline bags he had bought her for their honeymoon. Only one of the pieces was gone, a medium-sized bag.
    And then Denton remembered the unidentifiable male whisper of the night before, during the blackout: “Just take a suitcase.” This had all been plotted with her lover, this middle-of-the-night flight. Of course. That would appeal to Angel’s sense of romance. One bag … The sonofabitch must be planning to do a complete reoutfitting job on her, he thought sourly.
    Denton investigated the garage. The car was still there.
    So her lover came by to pick her up, he mused. Probably parked up the street and waited for his Cleopatra to steal out of the house, shaking in his boots for fear that Outraged Husband might come blasting out before they could get away.
    You damn fool, he thought. If you’d driven right up to the door I’d have handed her to you.
    The coffeepot was perking. He turned the heat down to Low , poured himself a cupful, took it into the living room and sat down and calmly began to read the Sunday paper. It was the Buffalo American ; the Clarion did not publish on Sundays.
    There was food in the refrigerator, and Denton was not in the mood for dining out. He had still not left the house when the telephone rang at 8 P.M.
    â€œRecovered from last night, Jim?” It was George Guest.
    â€œHell, yes,” Denton said. “I slept till noon.”
    â€œFeel like some bridge tonight?”
    â€œI’m afraid I can’t, George. No partner, for one thing.”
    â€œOh? Where’s Angel?”
    Denton hesitated. For the first time it struck him that Angel’s running off with some unknown Casanova was going to be the cherry on the cheesecake for Ridgemore. Now the tongues would really wag. Why give them the chance? The hell with them all—even George, he thought with a grin.
    â€œShe’s gone off to visit her parents. You know. Titusville.”
    â€œOh. Going to be gone long?”
    â€œA couple of weeks, she said.”
    â€œWell, that’s that.” George said. “How about me sending Corinne to a show and getting up a poker game?”
    â€œGive me a raincheck, George. I have a big day on tap.”
    â€œOkay,” said George cheerfully. “I tried. Drop by the store tomorrow, Jim, and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
    Denton got to bed early. He was up at 6:30. Forty-five minutes later