ily. He's sick
and it won't do to trouble him; but--honest, Corliss--if you don't
slack off in that neighbourhood a little, I'll have to have a talk
with the young lady herself."

A derisory light showed faintly in the younger man's eyes as he
inquired, softly: "That all, Mr. Pryor?"

"No. Don't try anything on out here. Not in _any_ of your lines."

"I don't mean to."

"That's right. Sell your house and clear out. You'll find it
healthy." He went to the door. "So far as I can see," he observed,
ruminatively, "you haven't brought any of that Moliterno crowd you
used to work with over to this side with you."

"I haven't seen Moliterno for two years," said Corliss, sharply.

"Well, I've said my say." Pryor gave him a last word as he went
out. "You keep away from that little girl."

"Ass!" exclaimed Corliss, as the door closed. He exhaled a deep
breath sharply, and broke into a laugh. Then he went quickly into
his bedroom and began to throw the things out of his trunk.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Hedrick Madison's eyes were not of marble; his heart was not flint
nor his skin steel plate: he was flesh and tender; he was a
vulnerable, breathing boy, with highly developed capacities for
pain which were now being taxed to their utmost. Once he had loved
to run, to leap, to disport himself in the sun, to drink deep of
the free air; he had loved life and one or two of his fellowmen.
He had borne himself buoyantly, with jaunty self-confidence, even
with some intolerance toward the weaknesses of others, not
infrequently displaying merriment over their mischances; but his
time had found him at last; the evil day had come. Indian Summer
was Indian for him, indeed: sweet death were welcome; no charity
was left in him. He leaped no more, but walked broodingly and
sought the dark places. And yet it could not be said that times
were dull for him: the luckless picket who finds himself in an
open eighty-acre field, under the eye of a sharpshooter up a tree,
would not be apt to describe the experience as dull. And Cora
never missed a shot; she loved the work; her pleasure in it was
almost as agonizing for the target as was the accuracy of her
fire.

She was ingenious: the horrible facts at her disposal were
damaging enough in all conscience: but they did not content her.
She invented a love-story, assuming that Hedrick was living it: he
was supposed to be pining for Lolita, to be fading, day-by-day,
because of enforced separation