the room. His eyes, with a little gleam in them, roamed comfortably into every corner. "It's worth being laid up to get a taste of this," he cried naïvely. "You see, I've never seen anything just like this," he added, almost apologetically, with the little deprecatory lift of his hands that had already fastened itself upon Roger as characteristic. "It's too good to be true!"

For a moment Roger was silent at this display of ingenuousness. Then he spoke as he would have expected to be spoken to, had their positions been reversed.

"I'll send in for your clothes—and things—if you'll give me your address...."

The tall man's expression of content faded. It was succeeded by a look of what might be taken for pain, or embarrassment,—or both.

"They're all here," he said quietly. "It wouldn't be worth while to send after a toothbrush and a comb, would it. That's all there is—home."

"Oh—I beg your pardon," said Roger, reddening. Then he cursed himself for the tactlessness of the apology.

"Nothing to blush at, my boy," cried Good. "Lend me a suit of pajamas, instead."

Roger rose hastily. He welcomed the opportunity to escape from this curious creature, who said such curious things, and who possessed but one suit of clothes. As very rarely happened, he found himself at a loss for words.

"Can I do anything else?" he asked from the doorway.

"Yes—you can thank your sister—from the bottom of my heart—for having introduced me to her motor-car ... and this—" he waved his hand around comprehensively, and smiled.

"Anything else?"

"Well, you might call up The World and tell them that I won't be down to-morrow. You might add that I fell down on the Wynrod story ... that I'm in the camps of the Persians."

Then, when Roger looked puzzled, he yawned luxuriously and stretched his arms over his head. And after another yawn, he closed his eyes.

"That's all, thanks. Tell 'em not to wake me—for a week...."

CHAPTER II

A BLOW—AND A RESOLUTION

I

It was after ten o'clock on the evening of the same day. Judith was thankful when a change at one of the tables gave her an opportunity to steal away. It was the same old routine, the same interminable bridge, the same familiar group, even including Faxon and Della Baker who, by a coincidence that had called forth little veiled ironies, had returned by the same late afternoon train. Judith wondered at herself. The life she led, the people she called her friends, had never seemed quite so shallow before. She stole upstairs and listened for a moment at the door of her patient's room. All was quite soundless. Returning to the floor below, she stepped out into the grateful coolness of the evening, seeking that part of the piazza at the opposite end of the house from the parlours. Pausing outside the smoking-room, she heard voices and the tinkle of ice. She looked through the glass door; there were two men in the room, Della Baker's husband and Faxon. The latter was stirring his high-ball thoughtfully. His words arrested her as she was on the point of turning back.

"If Roger keeps on at his present gait he'll make a neat little hole even in the Wynrod pile."

Baker lighted a fresh cigar. "Yes?" His tone was noncommittal.

"Got any for himself, d'ye think—or does Judith hold the bag?" Such imprudent garrulity was not characteristic of Faxon, but more whisky than was good for him had dulled discretion and loosened his tongue.

"It's hard to say." Baker leaned back and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. He was an extraordinarily taciturn man, even for a lawyer.

"The old man had a lot of confidence in her." Faxon gave the impression of soliloquy. "Shouldn't wonder if she kept the kid on an allowance. He's strapped pretty tight sometimes. Queer girl, Judith."

"Think so?"

"Yes. Sometimes I don't just know how to take her."

"So?"

"Charming, fine character and all that—but difficult. Don't you think so?"

"Um—well...."

"Roger's different."

"Is he?"

"Oh, my, yes. I don't mean when he's carrying a package—I want to dodge then—but when he's sober, he's a nice kid. Awfully young and simple, of course. Still...."

"Alarums without—and enter the king!" came a thick voice from the doorway, a voice that arrested Judith a second time and held her spellbound. She was already tingling with mortification. How dared her friends calmly analyse her and Roger in their own house, speculate on their private money matters, condescendingly, almost sneeringly foot up their account of good and bad? Then, even in the dark, she felt her cheeks grow hot. Was she herself much better than they, playing the eavesdropper on her own guests? Somehow, oddly, the thought flashed upon her that the quiet man upstairs would not have done so, that his code of ethics was a cleaner one than hers and that of her friends. But when she heard her brother's voice, with that telltale thickening in it, sheer dread of what he might do banished all thought of social niceties. Roger was not often like this, but when he was it meant trouble.

"Hello, Roger." Faxon's manner underwent a subtle change. "Thought you were playin' bridge with the crowd."

"Bridge? Me? Not on your life! I've cut that out. I'm sick of givin' the whole party, I am. I'm sick of bein' a Christmas-tree for blind babies. Put your han's in my pockets, boys. Ev'body's doin' it! No, sir, I've quit f' good. Where's the Scotch?"

"Really, Roger," protested Baker somewhat anxiously, "don't you think you'd better...."

"Jus' one toast," insisted Roger obstinately, "jus' one." He drew himself unsteadily erect. "I wanta drink—I wanta drink—to the mos' beautiful, mos' 'ttractive, mos' heartless...." As he raised the glass with a flourish, it slipped from his fingers and crashed on the table, its golden contents trickling over Baker's knees.

There was momentary silence; then a single short laugh. It sobered Wynrod like a dash of cold water. "You think I'm funny?" he demanded.

Faxon reddened. "Oh, come now, Roger, why so peevish? You've got things to be thankful about. I hear that Vera is leaving you, without even the threat of a breach of promise suit—"

The blood surged up into Roger's cheeks and his features sharpened. When he finally spoke it was very slowly.

"I'll thank you to keep your mouth shut on matters that don't concern you," he said icily.

Faxon's eyes gleamed angrily, and his lips parted; but he did not speak. He passed his hand across his mouth and laughed nervously.

Baker put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Let's see how the cards are going, Roger...."

But Wynrod shook him off. "Would you mind beating it, John—just a moment. I want to talk to Faxon—there's a good fellow—"

Baker surveyed the pair—and hesitated. Then, with a cold and meaning glance at Faxon, he shrugged his shoulders and went out.

When the curtains had closed, Wynrod turned to Faxon. He drew in his breath and his teeth clicked sharply.

"I may run the risk of breach of promise suits," he said, after a long pause, "but I stay away from married women."

"Well, that's noble of you to be sure, but—what of it?"

"You don't."

Faxon's features tightened. "I'm afraid I don't understand...."

"That's a lie," said Wynrod in an ugly, deliberate way.

"Now see here...." Faxon tried to bluster, but it was patently forced.

"Either you or the Bakers have got to get out of this house." The words were said quietly enough, but the determination behind them was plain. Faxon realised that, and tried equivocation.

"Why?"

"Because I won't have this sort of thing going on in my house."

"Your house?" There was just the faintest suggestion of an emphasis upon the pronoun.

"My house," repeated Roger coldly. "I saw you and