ver gone against her wishes when she spoke to him like that. He
patted her arm and smiled.

"All right, mother, dearest," he said, "we'll forget all about it now.
This is our day together and nothing shall impair it."

How glad he would have been to have been able to have told her of his
love for Consuello! How much help she could have been to him, now that
he was about to ruin the man Consuello had agreed to take as her
husband. If "that" Mrs. Sprockett, who was fostering his mother's
prejudice against motion pictures and motion picture players, would only
stay more at home with her colicky baby instead of playing the part of a
hypocritical Puritan. A passage from Proverbs his father had often
quoted returned to him.

"Where no wood is there the fire goeth out; so where there is no
talebearer, the strife ceaseth."

But he chased these thoughts from his head to be a companion to his
mother. They admired flowers in gardens of homes they passed, studied
interesting architecture they caught sight of, planned a picnic in the
foothills--John thought of the spot where he had watched Consuello
before the cameras--recited bits of poetry to each other and enjoyed the
afternoon more than any since the death of Mr. Gallant, who had always
led them on their Sunday "tramps," as he called them.

It was earlier than usual when they returned to their home. They
shortened their outing because of John's promise to Brennan to see
Murphy before morning and obtain from him an affidavit to be used in the
printed exposure of Cummings and Gibson.

"Be careful, my boy," Mrs. Gallant cautioned him as he kissed her before
leaving to get the car to go down town.

"Don't worry, mother; there's no danger now," he assured her.

As he passed the neighborhood picture theater a young girl, sixteen or
seventeen years of age, emerged from the door. In the strong light of
the lobby he saw her face plainly--a rather pretty face--and he
remembered, indistinctly, of having met her, seen her somewhere before.
He saw that she recognized him with a startled expression and
unconsciously he slowed his steps. The girl hurried to his side and put
her hand on his arm.

"Please don't tell, will you?" she begged.

"Tell? I don't understand," he said.

"Aren't you John Gallant?" she asked.

He noticed a look of fear in her eyes.

"Yes."

"I'm Alma Sprockett," she said, as if the mention of her name was
sufficient explanation of her request for him to k