share my room. There's only
Lorna--and I'll pay Red's board.... You have quite a family--"

"Hell, Dare--don't apologize to me for my mother," burst out Blair,
bitterly.

"Blair, I believe you realize what we are up against--and I don't,"
rejoined Lane, with level gaze upon his friend.

"Dare, can't you see we're up against worse than the Argonne?--worse,
because back here at home--that beautiful, glorious
thought--idea--spirit we had is gone. Dead!"

"No, I can't see," returned Lane, stubbornly.

"Well, I guess that's one reason we all loved you, Dare--you couldn't
see.... But I'll bet you my crutch Helen makes you see. Her father
made a pile out of the war. She's a war-rich snob now. And going the
pace!"

"Blair, she may make me see her faithlessness--and perhaps some
strange unrest--some change that's seemed to come over everything. But
she can't prove to me the death of anything outside of herself. She
can't prove that any more than Mel Iden's confession proved her a
wanton. It didn't. Not to me. Why, when Mel put her hand on my
breast--on this medal--and looked at me--I had such a thrill as I
never had before in all my life. Never!... Blair, it's _not_ dead.
That beautiful thing you mentioned--that spirit--that fire which
burned so gloriously--it is _not_ dead."

"Not in you--old pard," replied Blair, unsteadily. "I'm always ashamed
before your faith. And, by God, I'll say you're my only anchor."

"Blair, let's play the game out to the end," said Lane.

"I get you, Dare.... For Margie, for Lorna, for Mel--even if they
have--"

"Yes," answered Lane, as Blair faltered.

CHAPTER IV

As Lane sped out Elm Street in a taxicab he remembered that his last
ride in such a conveyance had been with Helen when he took her home
from a party. She was then about seventeen years old. And that night
she had coaxed him to marry her before he left to go to war. Had her
feminine instinct been infallibly right? Would marrying her have saved
her from what Blair had so forcibly suggested?

Elm Street was a newly developed part of Middleville, high on one of
its hills, and manifestly a restricted section. Lane had found the
number of Helen's home in the telephone book. When the chauffeur
stopped before a new and imposing pile of red brick, Lane understood
an acquaintance's reference to the war rich. It was a mansion, but
somehow not a home. It flaunted something indefinable.

Lane instructed the driver to wait a