, pausing in the midst of the
last letter to spell out the word "analysis," which he must have known
would enrage her further. Then, quite casually, he wished to be told
if she might know the local habitat of Mrs. Alys Brewster-Smith and a
certain Cousin Emelene. His manner was arid.

Miss Sheridan chanced to know that the ladies were sheltered in the
exclusive boarding-house of one Mrs. Gallup, out on Erie Street, and
informed him to this effect in the fewest possible words. Mr. Evans
whistled absently a moment, then formally announced that he should be
absent from the office for perhaps an hour. Hat, gloves and stick in
hand, he was about to nod punctiliously to the back of Miss Sheridan's
head when the door opened to admit none other than our hero, George
Remington. George wore the look of one who is uplifted and who yet has
found occasion to be thoughtful about it. Penfield Evans grasped his
hand and shook it warmly.

"Fine, George, old boy--simply corking! Honestly, I didn't believe you
had it in you. You covered the ground and you did it in a big way. It
took nerve, all right! Of course you probably know that every woman in
town is speaking of your young wife as 'poor Genevieve,' but you've had
the courage of your convictions. It's great!"

"Thanks, old man! I've spoken for the right as I saw it, let come what
may. By the way, has Uncle Martin been in this morning, or telephoned,
or sent any word?"

Miss Sheridan coldly signified that none of these things had occurred,
whereupon George sighed in an interesting manner and entered his own
room.

Mr. Evans had uttered his congratulations in clear, ringing tones and
Miss Sheridan, even as she wrote, contrived with her trained shoulders
to exhibit to his lingering eye an overwhelming contempt for his
opinions and his double-dealing.

In spite of which he went out whistling, and dosed the door in a defiant
manner.

CHAPTER III. BY FANNIE HURST

Destiny, busybody that she is, has her thousand irons in her perpetual
fires, turning, testing and wielding them.

While Miss Betty Sheridan, for another scornful time, was rereading the
well-thumbed copy of the _Sentinel_, her fine back arched like a prize
cat's, George Remington in his small mahogany office adjoining, neck low
and heels high, was codifying, over and over again, the small planks
of his platform, stuffing the knot holes which afforded peeps to the
opposite side of the issue with anti-putty, an