contempt for him increasing as she
caught the wave of anxiety that swept his face at her reference to the
men who would help her. "Now, you can have just one minute to leave this
room, Mr. Dalton," she cried, throwing back the door. "If you're over
that time, the policeman on the block will help you down-stairs."

Dalton hesitated. The allusion to Stephen, whoever he might be, and to
the other man, disturbed him. That the woman knew more of his history
than she was willing at that time to tell was evident. That she was
entirely in earnest, and meant what she said, and that it would be more
than dangerous for him to defy her, should she appeal to the police for
help, were equally evident.

"Of course, my dear woman," he said, with assumed humility, his eyes
glistening with anger, "if you do not want me to stay, I suppose I shall
have to go. I did not come to make any fuss; I only came to take my wife
home where I can take care of her. She seems to think she can get along
without me. All right--I am willing she should try it for a while. She
has my address, which is more than I had when she left me without a word
of any kind."

He slid his hand under his cape to assure himself that the mantilla
was safe and out of sight, picked up his hat, and stepped jauntily out,
saying as he went down the staircase: "Next time, she will come to me.
Do you hear? Tell her so, will you?"

Chapter XVIII

Sometimes on life's highway we meet a man who reminds us of one of those
high-priced pears seen in fruiterers' windows: wholesome, good to look
at, without a speck or stain on their smooth, round, rosy skins--until
we bite into them. Then, close to their hearts, we uncover a greedy,
conscienceless worm, gnawing away in the dark--and consign the whole to
the waste-barrel.

Dalton, despite his alluring exterior, had been rotten at heart from the
time he was sixteen years of age, when he had lied to his father about
his school remittances, which the old man had duplicated at once.

That none of his associates had discovered this was owing to the fact
that no one had probed deeper than the skin of his attractiveness--and
with good reason: it was clean, good to look at, bright in color, a most
welcome addition to any dinner-table. But when the drop came--and
very few fruits can stand being bumped on the sidewalk--the revelation
followed all the quicker, simply because bruised fruit rots in a day, as
even the least qualified am