rough shame and disgrace, through trickery,
treachery, and triumph--nothing had ever broken the occult bond which
linked these two. And neither understood why, but both seemed to be
vaguely conscious that neither was entirely complete without the
other.

"Ben," said Brandes affably, "I'm going to walk over to Gayfield. Want
to come?"

They went off, together.

CHAPTER VII

OBSESSION

By the end of the week Brandes had done much to efface any unpleasant
impression he had made on Ruhannah Carew.

The girl had never before had to do with any mature man. She was
therefore at a disadvantage in every way, and her total lack of
experience emphasised the odds.

Nobody had ever before pointedly preferred her, paid her undivided
attention; no man had ever sought her, conversed with her, deferred to
her, interested himself in her. It was entirely new to her, this
attention which Brandes paid her. Nor could she make any comparisons
between this man and other men, because she knew no other men. He was
an entirely novel experience to her; he had made himself interesting,
had proved amusing, considerate, kind, generous, and apparently
interested in what interested her. And if his unfeigned preference for
her society disturbed and perplexed her, his assiduous civilities
toward her father and mother were gradually winning from her far more
than anything he had done for her.

His white-faced, odd little friend had gone; he himself had taken
quarters at the Gayfield House, where a car like the wrecked one was
stabled for his use.

He had already taken her father and mother and herself everywhere
within motoring distance; he had accompanied them to church; he
escorted her to the movies; he walked with her in the August evenings
after supper, rowed her about on the pond, fished from the bridge,
told her strange stories in the moonlight on the verandah, her father
and mother interested and attentive.

For the career of Mr. Eddie Brandes was capable of furnishing material
for interesting stories if carefully edited, and related with
discretion and circumspection. He had been many things to many
men--and to several women--he had been a tinhorn gambler in the
Southwest, a miner in Alaska, a saloon keeper in Wyoming, a fight
promoter in Arizona. He had travelled profitably on popular ocean
liners until requested to desist; Auteuil, Neuilly, Vincennes, and
Longchamps knew him as tout, bookie, and, when fitfully prosperous,