e--drinks!"

"Margery!" It was open disapproval this time, a thing unusual for Harry
Randall. "We mustn't listen to such gossip, either of us. Steve and I
have been chums for years and years and--we simply mustn't listen to such
things at all."

For an instant the girl was silent; then the brown head tossed
rebelliously.

"Well, I can't help it if people talk; and it isn't fair of you to
suppose that I pass it on either--except to you. You know that I--" she
checked herself. "It isn't as though Agnes was the only one either," she
defended. "I've heard it several times lately." Inspiration came and she
looked at her husband directly. "Honest, Harry, haven't you heard it
too?"

The man hesitated, and on the instant solid ground vanished from beneath
his feet.

"Yes, I have," he admitted weakly. "It's a burning shame too that people
will concoct--" He halted suddenly, listening. His eyes went to the
clock. "I had no idea it was so late," he digressed as the bell rang
loudly. "That's Steve now. I know his ring."

Alone in the up-stairs study, which with its folding-bed was likewise
spare sleeping-room and again smoking-room,--Margery had not yet
surrendered to the indiscriminate presence of tobacco smoke,--Steve
Armstrong ignored the chair Randall had proffered and remained standing,
his hands deep in his trousers' pockets, a look new to his friend--one
restless, akin to reckless--on his usually good-humored face. Contrary
again to precedent his dress was noticeably untidy, an impression
accentuated by a two-days' growth of beard and by neglected linen. That
something far from normal was about to transpire Randall knew at a
glance, but courteously seemed not to notice. Instead, with a familiar
wave, he indicated the cigar-jar he kept on purpose for visitors and took
a pipe himself.

"I haven't had my after-dinner smoke yet," he commented. "Better light up
with me. It always tastes better when one has company."

"Thanks." Armstrong made a selection absently and struck a match; but,
the unlighted cigar in his fingers, let the match burn dead. "I don't
intend to bother you long," he plunged without preface. "I know you want
to work." He glanced nervously at the door to see that it was closed. "I
just wanted to have a little talk with you, a--little heart-to-heart
talk."

"Yes." Randall's face showed no surprise, but his pipe bowl was aglow and
his free hand was caressing his bald spot steadily.

"Frankly, old man