"You actually threatened him because he asked about me?"

"I reckon that was about how it started," he admitted slowly. "You
see, I rather thought I was a sorter friend of yours, and that I ought
to stand up for you."

"Did--did this man say anything against me?"

"No--not exactly; he--he just asked questions."

Her eyes were scornful, angry,

"Indeed! Well, permit me to say, Mr. Westcott, that I choose my own
friends, and am perfectly competent to defend my own character. This
closes our acquaintanceship."

She moved about the end of the table, and touched Beaton's sleeve with
her fingers.

"Would you escort me to the foot of the stairs?" she asked, her voice
softening. "We will leave this belligerent individual to his own
company."

Neither of them glanced back, the girl still speaking as they
disappeared, but Westcott turned in his chair to watch them cross the
room. He had no sense of anger, no desire to retaliate, but he felt
dazed and as though the whole world was suddenly turned upside down.
So she really belonged with that outfit, did she? Well, it was a good
joke on him.

The waitress spoke to him twice before he was sufficiently aroused to
give his order.

CHAPTER XI: DEAD OR ALIVE

Before Westcott finished his meal his mood had changed to tolerant
amusement. That the girl had deliberately deceived him was plain,
enough, revealed now in both her manner and words. What her true
purpose might have been in apparently seeking his friendship at first
could not now be conjectured--indeed, made little difference--but it
was clear enough she really belonged to the Lacy crowd, and had no more
use for him.

Westcott was sorry for the turn things had taken; he made no attempt to
disguise this from his own mind. He was beginning to like Miss
Donovan, to think about her, to feel a distinct interest in her. Some
way she had impressed him deeply as a young woman of character and
unusual charm--a breath out of the East to arouse his imagination and
memory. He had begun to hope for a friendship which would endure, and
now--the house of cards fell at a single touch.

He could scarcely comprehend the situation; how a girl of her apparent
refinement and gentility could ever be attracted by a rough, brutal
type such as Ned Beaton so evidently was. Why, the man's lack of taste
in dress, the expression of his face, his ungrammatical language,
stamped him as belonging to a distinctly lower order.