eded it.

"My friends," he said quietly, "I am glad to see you here and hope
that I may prove worthy of your good opinions. I'm grateful to you and
Mr. Ballard, Mr. Stewardson, Mr. da Costa, Mr. Walsenberg, Mr. Wrenn
and Mr. Duhring for all that you've done for me in here, but I want
you all to know that it's to Roger Canby that I owe my greatest debt,
to Roger Canby, my tutor, brother, mother, father,--friend."

They wanted me to speak. I could not. But Jerry understood.

In the library after dinner I overheard part of a conversation
between Ballard the elder and Mr. Duhring.

"What's all this rubbish of Jack's, Harry, about Jerry having a square
chin. Do you think he'll be difficult to manage?"

Henry Ballard smiled.

"Jack can't resist his little joke. I'm afraid I've spoiled that boy
outrageously."

"Yes, I rather think you have," said the other dryly.

CHAPTER VIII

JERRY EMERGES

In hearing from Jack Ballard's own lips the story of Jerry Benham's
first appearance in Broadway I was forcibly reminded of the opening
cantos of the Divine Comedy where Dante follows the shade of Virgil
into the abyss of hell. I had not let Jerry know of my presence in New
York, for I believed that he would have wanted me with him and did not
care to be placed in a position to refuse him. Indeed I can give no
reason for my visit except the very plausible one that, my work going
badly, I felt the need of a change. Jack was much amused at my sudden
appearance one morning at his apartments, but welcomed me warmly
enough, giving the pledge of secrecy I demanded.

"Oh, it's been perfectly ripping," he said, when we were seated,
fairly bubbling over with delectable reminiscences. "He's like a
newly-hatched chicken, all fluffy and clean, a little batty-eyed and
groggy but intensely curious about everything."

"Has he asked any questions?"

"Millions of 'em, like balls from a Roman candle. He shoots 'em at
every angle and some of 'em hit."

"You've taken him about?" I asked.

"Yes, but he doesn't exactly comprehend the meaning and purposes of
his clubs. I took him in one of them, the most select, on several
afternoons. The same fellows were always sitting around a window
looking out, others, older ones, were asleep in armchairs. I didn't
offer him anything to drink and we sat there, watching the chaps in
the window and listening to their talk. The conversation was not
brilliant."

"'Do these gentlemen do this all th