ly the
time to devote yourself to any such young woman. What do you say to a
trip to California? I'll foot all the bills, and later I will settle what
you ask for on you." He spoke to Patience.

"Thank you." She spoke without a tremor. "You may do something
substantial for my mother, because you--took--my poor father's invention.
Do you know, sir, that my poor father never recovered from that loss?"

"Hell's fire!" yelled John Boland, "I--"

"You see, sir," interrupted Harry deliberately, "it really is time for a
show-down. I wouldn't go away from Chicago at present, even for the
wedding journey which we will pretend you were honestly offering us. I am
going to stay and fight it out. You will have to stay and fight it out,
too."

"Me?" blustered Boland. "What have I got to fight out?"

"You know very well why you were at Druce's cafe tonight. You were in a
plot against me, leagued with that fellow, Druce, and his tribe, too,
against the crusade started by Mary Randall to protect girls. You prefer
to make money exploiting them. Not directly, perhaps, but conspicuously
indirect."

"So you are turning traitor in--politics?" sneered his father. "Taking
sides with a crazy fanatic, whose presence at the cafe caused the death
of a good citizen of Chicago. Druce did not mean to shoot Anson."

"I see your line of defense. It's you who have turned traitor--to all
that is right in you as a man. See, here is the anonymous letter which
summoned me to the cafe tonight. I wish you could tell me that you do not
know who wrote that note."

Boland read the letter scornfully. "How should I know who writes you
letters? Young men who make alliances with women who frequent such places
must expect such messages," he sneered.

"Stop!" Harry's eyes blazed with anger. "We have borne all that we shall
of that sort from you. One more such syllable and I shall not be able to
speak to you as to my father--even in outward respect."

"You seem already to have forgotten that completely."

Harry let the sneer pass. "It is up to you, sir, to decide now--this
moment--whether or not I ever look upon you as my father again. I have
myself decided that I shall no longer be a party to your crimes."

"Crimes! My God, this is too much!"

"You are too shrewd a man to have a fool for a son. I see plainly that
you were leagued with Druce and Anson to blacken the woman I love. But
right is might and love is right. The whole dastardly affair enlightens