s sense
of the overwhelming magnitude of the powers which had made him their
puppet; of the utter futility of the efforts that he or any other man
could make against them. They were like elemental, cosmic forces; they
held all the world in their grip, and a common man was as much at their
mercy as a bit of chaff in a tempest.

All day long he sat in his office, brooding and nursing his wrath. He
had moods when he wished to drop everything, to shake the dust of the
city from his feet, and go back home and recollect what it was to be a
gentleman. And then again he had fighting moods, when he wished to
devote all his life to punishing the men who had made use of him. He
would get hold of some other policy-holder in the Fidelity, one whom he
could trust; he would take the case without pay, and carry it through
to the end! He would force the newspapers to talk about it--he would
force the people to heed what he said!

And then, toward evening, he went home, bitter and sore. And there was
his brother sitting in his study, waiting for him.

"Hello," he said, and took off his coat, preparing his mind for one
more ignominy--the telling of his misfortune to Oliver, and listening
to his inevitable, "I told you so."

But Oliver himself had something to communicate something that would
not bear keeping. He broke out at once--"Tell me, Allan! What in the
world has happened between you and Mrs. Winnie?"

"What do you mean?" asked Montague, sharply.

"Why," said Oliver, "everybody is talking about some kind of a quarrel."

"There has been no quarrel," said Montague.

"Well, what is it, then?"

"It's nothing."

"It must be something!" exclaimed Oliver. "What do all the stories
mean?"

"What stories?"

"About you two. I met Mrs. Vivie Patton just now, and she swore me to
secrecy, and told me that Mrs. Winnie had told some one that you had
made love to her so outrageously that she had to ask you to leave the
house."

Montague shrunk as from a blow. "Oh!" he gasped.

"That's what she said," said he.

"It's a lie!" he cried.

"That's what I told Mrs. Vivie," said the other; "it doesn't sound like
you--"

Montague had flushed scarlet. "I don't mean that!" he cried. "I mean
that Mrs. Winnie never said any such thing."

"Oh," said Oliver, and he shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe not," he
added. "But I know she's furious with you about something--everybody's
talking about it. She tells people that she'll never speak to you