Frank Algernon Cowperwood, only in this case the name 
of Aileen Butler had curiously been omitted. 
Perhaps you don't know that your husband is running with an- 
other woman. If you don't believe it, watch the house at 931 
North Tenth Street. 
Mrs. Cowperwood was in the conservatory of her own 
home watering some plants when this letter was brought 
by her maid on this fatal Monday morning. She was 
most placid in her thoughts, for she did not know what 
all the conferring of the night before meant. Frank was 
occasionally troubled by financial storms, but they did 
not seem to harm him. 
" Lay it on the table in the library, Annie. I'll get it." 
She thought it was some social note. 
In a little while, such was her deliberate way, she put 
down her sprinkling-pot and went into the library. There 
it was lying on the green leather sheepskin which con- 
stituted a part of the ornamentation of the large library 
table. She picked it up, glanced at it curiously because it 
was on cheap paper, and then opened it. Her face, al- 
ways placid, paled slightly as she read it; and then her 
hand trembled—not much. Hers was not a soul that 
ever loved passionately, hence she could not suffer pas- 
sionately. She was hurt, disgusted, enraged some for the 
moment, and frightened; but she was not broken in spirit 
entirely. Thirteen years of life with Frank Cowperwood 
had taught her a number of things. He was selfish, she 
knew now, self-centered, and not as much charmed by 
her now as he had been. The fear she had originally 
felt as to the effect of her preponderance of years had 
been to some extent justified by the lapse of time. Frank 
did not love her as he had—he had not for some time; 
she had felt it. What was it? she had asked herself at 
times—almost, who was it ? Business was so engrossing 
to him. Finance was such a master. Did this mean the 
end of her regime? she queried. Would he cast her off?