f in these days of unregeneration. Anne was always smarter than he;
he never knew just how much smarter she was but he knew when to feel
apprehensive.

"You wanted to see me, George," she said abruptly. "What is it you want?
Money?"

He scowled. "I might have known you would ask that question. No, I don't
want money. I could have had some of old man Thorpe's money a couple of
weeks ago if I'd been mean enough to take it, and I'm not mean enough to
take it now--from you. I want to talk to you about Braden Thorpe."

For a moment or two Anne looked into his frowning eyes, and then she drew
back into the corner of the couch, a queer shudder running through her
body.

"About Braden?" she asked, striving to make her voice sound firm and
unstrained.

"Where is he? Staying here in the house?"

"Of course not. I don't know where he is. He has not been near me
since--since the day before--" She spoke rapidly, jerkily, and did not deem
it necessary to complete the sentence.

George had the delicacy to hesitate. He even weighed, in that brief
instant, the advisability of saying what he had come to say to her. Then a
queer sense of duty, of brother to sister, took the place of doubt. She
was his sister and she needed him now as never before, needed him now
despite his self-admitted worthlessness.

"See here, Anne, I'm going to speak plainly," he blurted out, leaning
forward. "You must not see Brady Thorpe again. If he comes here, you must
refuse to receive him."

Her eyes were very dark and lustreless against the increased pallor of her
cheeks. "He will not come here, George," she said, scarcely above a
whisper. She moistened her lips. "It isn't necessary to--to warn me."

"Mind you, I don't say a word against him," he made haste to explain.
"It's what people will say that troubles me. Perhaps you don't know what
they are going to say, Anne, but I do."

"Oh, I know what they will say," she muttered. She looked straight into
his eyes. "They will say that he killed his grandfather--purposely."

"It doesn't matter that they say he killed his grandfather, Anne," said he
slowly, "so much as that he killed your husband. That's the point."

"What have you heard, George?" she asked, in dread of his reply.

"Barely enough to let me understand that where one man is talking now, a
hundred will be talking next week. There was a young doctor up there in
the operating room. He doesn't say it in so many words, but he suspects
that