sickly look of content overspread his face. He expanded. His assurance
seemed to crowd the room.

"Wouldn't worry for a minute 'bout those notes if I were you."

He suddenly switched, shaking his finger at the caraffe.

"Very pleasant, little drop like this--night cap on the quiet. But not
often."

His content sought expression in a smile.

"Dolly's off the hootch."

George lighted a cigarette. He noticed that his fingers were quite
steady, yet he was perfectly conscious of each beat of his heart.

"May I ask," he said, "what possible connection there can be between my
not worrying about your notes and your keeping off the hootch, as you
call it?"

Dalrymple arose, finished the caraffe, and tapped George's shoulder.

"Every connection," he answered. "Expect you have a right to know. Don't
you worry, old Shylock Morton. You're goin' to get your pound ah flesh."

"I fancy I am," George laughed. "What's your idea of it?"

Dalrymple waved his glass.

"Lady of my heart--surrender after long siege, but only brave deserve
fair. Good thing college education. Congratulate me, Morton. But secret
for you, 'cause you old Shylock. Wouldn't say anything to Sylvia till
she lets it loose."

As George walked quietly to the door, which the servant a long time ago
had left a trifle open, he heard Dalrymple mouthing disconnected words:
"Model husband." "Can't be too soon for Dolly."

Then, as he closed the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket,
he heard Dalrymple say aloud, sharply:

"What the devil you doing, Morton?"

George turned. Ammunition against Dalrymple! He had been collecting it.
Now, clearly, was the time to use it. In his mind the locked room held
precariously all of Sylvia's happiness and his.

He didn't hesitate. He walked straight to the table. Dalrymple had
slumped down in his chair, the content and triumph of his inflamed eyes
replaced by a sullen fear.

VI

"What's the idea?" Dalrymple asked, uncertainly, watching George,
grasping the arms of his chair preparatory to rising.

"Sit still, and I'll tell you," George answered.

"Why you lock the door?"

From Dalrymple's palpable fear George watched escape a reluctant and
fascinated curiosity.

"No more of that strong-arm stuff with me----"

"I locked the door," George answered, "so that I could point out to you,
quite undisturbed, just why you are going to leave Sylvia Planter
alone."

Dalrymple relaxed. He commenced incredulousl