ith homes, it is true, but those
very streets hid also vice and degradation, and ugly passions. They
sheltered, but also they concealed.

At eleven o'clock he went back to the Benedict, and was told that Mr.
Akers had come in.

It was Akers himself who opened the door. Because the night was hot he
had shed coat and shirt, and his fine torso, bare to the shoulders and
at the neck, gleamed in the electric light. Willy Cameron had not seen
him since those spring days when he had made his casual, bold-eyed
visits to Edith at the pharmacy, and he had a swift insight into the
power this man must have over women. He himself was tall; but Akers was
taller, fully muscled, his head strongly set on a neck like a column.
But he surmised that the man was soft, out of condition. And he had lost
the first elasticity of youth.

Akers' expression had changed from one of annoyance to watchfulness when
he opened the door.

"Well!" he said. "Making a late call, aren't you?"

"What I had to say wouldn't wait."

Akers had, rather unwillingly, thrown the door wide, and he went in.
The room was very hot, for a small fire, littered as to its edges with
papers, burned in the grate. Although he knew that Akers had guessed the
meaning of his visit at once and was on guard, there was a moment or two
when each sparred for an opening.

"Sit down. Have a cigarette?"

"No, thanks." He remained standing.

"Or a high-ball? I still have some fairly good whiskey."

"No. I came to ask you a question, Mr. Akers."

"Well, answering questions is one of the best little things I do."

"You know about Edith Boyd's condition. She says you are responsible. Is
that true?"

Louis Akers was not unprepared. Sooner or later he had known that Edith
would tell. But what he had not counted on was that she would tell
any one who knew Lily. He had felt that her leaving the pharmacy had
eliminated that chance. "What do you mean, her condition?"

"You know. She says she has told you."

"You're pretty thick with her yourself, aren't you?"

"I happen to live at the Boyd house."

He was keeping himself well under control, but Akers saw his hand
clench, and resorted to other tactics. He was not angry himself, but he
was wary now; he considered that life was unnecessarily complicated, and
that he had a distinct grievance.

"I have asked you a question, Mr. Akers."

"You don't expect me to answer it, do you?"

"I do."

"If you have come here to talk to me