The Silent Battle

XIX
LOVE ON CRUTCHES

Mrs. Pennington’s philosophy had taught her that it was better to be surprised than to be bored, and that even unpleasant surprises were slightly more desirable than no surprises at all. It was toward the end of January on her halting journey homeward from Aiken, one morning in Washington, that she saw in a local journal the announcement of an engagement between Miss Jane Loring and Mr. Coleman Van Duyn. To say that she was surprised puts the matter mildly, and it is doubtful whether the flight of her ennui compensated her for the sudden pang of dismay which came with the reading of this article. She had left New York the day after the affair at “The Pot and Kettle,” and so had only the memory of Jane’s confidences and Phil Gallatin’s happy face to controvert the news.

And when some days later she arrived in New York, she found that, though unconfirmed in authoritative quarters, the rumors still persisted among her own friends and Jane’s. Of Phil Gallatin she saw nothing and learned that he was out of town on an important legal matter and would not return for a week. When she called on the Lorings, Jane showed a disposition to avoid personal topics and at the mention of Philip Gallatin’s name skillfully turned the conversation into other channels.

To a woman of Mrs. Pennington’s experience the hint was enough and she departed from the Loring mausoleum aware that something serious had happened which threatened Phil Gallatin’s happiness. But, in spite of the warmth of Jane’s greeting and the careless way in which she had discussed the gossip of the hour, Nellie Pennington was not deceived, and by the time she was in her own brougham had made one of those rapid deductions for which she was famous. Jane looked jaded. Therefore, she was unhappy; therefore, she still loved Phil Gallatin. Phil Gallatin was working hard. Therefore, Phil was keeping straight; there must be some other cause for Jane’s defection. What? Obviously—a woman. Who? Nina Jaffray.

Having reached this triumphant conclusion, Mrs. Pennington set about proving her several premises without the waste of a single moment of time. To this end she sought out Percy Endicott, who as she knew was better informed upon most people’s affairs than they were themselves, and from him learned the truth. Philip Gallatin had been discovered with Nina Jaffray in his arms on the kitchen stairs at the “Pot and Kettle.” Percy Endicott’s talent for the ornamentation of bare narrative was well known and before he had finished the story he had convinced himself, if not his listener, that this happy event had brought to a culmination a romance of many years’ standing and that Nina and Phil would soon be directing their steps, with all speed, to church.

Mrs. Pennington laughed, not because what Percy told amused her, but because this narrative showed her that however much she was still lacking in reliable details, her earliest deductions had been correct. She would not believe the story until it had been confirmed by “Bibby” Worthington to whom Coleman Van Duyn had related it as an eye-witness, and then herself supplied the grain of salt to make it palatable.

The grain of salt was her knowledge of Nina Jaffray’s extraordinary personality, which must account for any differences she discovered between the Phil Gallatin who kissed upon the back stairs and the Phil Gallatin with whom she was familiar. Whatever his deficiencies in other respects, he had never been considered as available timber by the gay young married women of Mrs. Pennington’s own set who had given him up in the susceptive sense as a hopeless case; and if Phil had been addicted to the habit of promiscuous kissing, he had gone about the pursuit with a stealth which belied the record of his unsentimental but somewhat tempestuous history. She found herself wondering not so much about what had happened to Phil as about how Nina had managed what had happened. Nina’s remarkable confession a few days before Egerton Savage’s party recurred to her mind, and Nina’s clearly expressed intention to bring Phil to her chariot-wheel seemed somehow to have an intimate bearing upon the present situation. And yet, even admitting Nina’s direct methods of seeking results, she could not understand how a fellow as much in love with another girl as Phil was could have been made so ready a victim. Could it be? No. There was no talk of that. And if Phil had again been in trouble, Mrs. Pennington knew that the indefatigable Percy would have told her of it.

She thought about the matter awhile and finally gave it up, uncertain whether to be anxious or only amused. But as the week went by she was given tangible evidence that whatever feelings Jane Loring cherished in her heart for Phil Gallatin, the wings of victory, for the present at least, were perched upon the banneret of Mr. Coleman Van Duyn. Jane rode, walked, and danced with him, and within a few short weeks, from a state of ponderous misery Coleman Van Duyn had revived and now bore the definite outlines of a well-fed and happy cupid.

The rumors of an engagement persisted, and Mrs. Pennington was not the only person forced against her judgment or inclination to believe that the old Van Duyn mansion would once more have a mistress. Dirwell De Lancey, whose tenderness in Jane’s quarter had been remarked, went into retirement for a brief period, and only emerged when resignation had conquered surprise. Colonel Crosby Broadhurst sat in his corner at the Cosmos and wondered, as other people did, what the devil Jane Loring could see in Coley. Bibby Worthington still hovered amiably in Jane’s background and would not be dislodged. He had proposed in due form to Jane and had been refused, but the cheerful determination of his bearing and his taste in cravats advised all who chose to concern themselves that he was still undismayed.

After Mrs. Pennington, who thought that she saw a light, perhaps the person most surprised at Jane’s sudden attachment for Coleman Van Duyn was Mrs. Loring. She had listened with incredulity to Jane’s first confession of her relations with Philip Gallatin and had waited with resignation a resumption of the conversation. But as the days passed and her daughter said nothing, she thought it time to take the matter into her own hands and told Jane of her intention to speak of it to her husband.

“I’ll save you the trouble, Mother,” said Jane, kissing her gravely on the forehead. “There is nothing between Mr. Gallatin and myself.”

Mrs. Loring concealed her delight with difficulty.

“Jane, dear, something has happened.”

“Nothing—nothing at all,” said Jane. “I’ve changed my mind—that’s all.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Loring. This much imparted, Jane would say no more; the matter was dropped, and to Mrs. Loring it seemed that in so far as Jane was concerned, Mr. Gallatin had simply ceased to exist.

But it was not without some difficulty that Jane convinced herself that this was the case. The day after the “Pot and Kettle” affair, Phil Gallatin wrote, ’phoned, wired and called. His note Jane consigned to the fire, his telephone was answered by Hastings, his wire followed his note, and to his visit she was out. This, she thought, should have concluded their relations, but the following morning brought another letter—a long one. She hesitated before deciding whether to open it or to return it, but at last she broke the seal and read it through, her lips compressed, her brows tangled angrily. It was a plea for forgiveness, and that was all. There were many regrets, many protestations of love, but not one word of explanation! He had even gone so far as to call the incident a trifle (a trifle, indeed!) and to call her to account for an intolerance which he had the temerity to say was unworthy of the great love that he had given her.

The impudence of him! What did he mean? Was the man mad? Or was this the New York idea? She realized now that he was an animal that she had met in an unfamiliar habitat, and that perhaps the things to be expected of him here were those dictated by the inconsiderable ideals of the day. It dismayed her to think that after all here in New York, she had only known him a little more than a week. His vision appeared—and was banished, and his letter, torn again and again into small pieces was consigned to the flames of her open fire. She made no reply.

Another letter came on the morrow, was read like the other, but likewise destroyed. His persistence was amazing. Would he not take a hint and save her the unpleasant duty of sending his letters back to him unopened? Apparently not! And with the letters came baskets of flowers which, like those from Mr. Van Duyn, filled her room with pleasant odors.

She was willing to believe now that a word of explanation, a clue to his extraordinary behavior might have paved the way to reconciliation, and she found herself wondering in a material way what was becoming of him and worrying, in spite of herself, as to his future, of which, as she had once fondly believed, she was the guardian. What was he doing with himself in the evenings?

This thought sent the blood rushing to her cheeks and hardened her heart against him. He was with Nina Jaffray, of course. In his last letter he had written that he must go away on business and for two mornings no letter arrived. She missed these letters and was furious with herself that it was so. But the energy of her anger was conserved in the form of further favors for Coley Van Duyn who radiated it in rapturous good-will toward all the world. When the letters were resumed, she locked them in her desk unread, determining upon his return to town to make them into a package and send them back in bulk. Many times she unlocked her desk and scrutinized the envelopes, but it was always to thrust them into their drawer which she shut and locked each time with quite unnecessary violence.

Another matter which caused some inquietude was Nellie Pennington’s return to town, for Mrs. Pennington was the only person, besides Mr. Gallatin and her mother, in actual possession of her secret, the only person besides Mr. Gallatin whom it was necessary to convince as to the definiteness of her recantation. At their first meeting Jane had carried off the situation with a carelessness which she felt had rather overshot the mark. Her visitor had accepted the hints with a disconcerting readiness and composure, and Jane had a feeling after Mrs. Pennington left the house that her efforts had been singularly ineffective; for she was conscious that her visitor had scrutinized her keenly and that anything she had said had been carefully sifted, weighed and subjected to that kind of cunning alchemy which clever women use to transmute the baser metals of sophistry into gold.

Mrs. Pennington had now taken an initiative in the friendship and refused to be disconcerted. Jane’s engagements with Coleman Van Duyn provided no effectual hindrance to Mrs. Pennington’s enthusiastic fellowship, and she frequently helped to make a party in which, to Mr. Van Duyn at least, three was a crowd. Mrs. Pennington accepted his presence without surprise, without annoyance or other emotion; and somehow succeeded in conveying the impression that she was conferring a favor upon them both, a favor for which, in her own heart at least, Jane was grateful.

It was not surprising to Jane, therefore, when one morning Nellie Pennington called up on the ’phone and made an engagement for the afternoon at five, at the Loring house, urging a need of Jane’s advice upon an important matter. She entered the library, where Jane had been reading, with a radiance which did much to dispel the gloom of the day which had been execrable; and when her hostess suggested that they go upstairs to her own dressing-room, where they might be undisturbed, Nellie Pennington threw off her furs.

“No, thanks, darling,” she said. “I can’t stay long. And you know when one reaches my mature years, each stair has a separate menace.”

“There’s the lift,” Jane laughed.

“Oh, never! That would be a public confession. I’ll stay here if you don’t mind,” and she sank into an armchair by the fire.

“Coley isn’t coming?” she inquired.

“No,” said Jane. “I had a headache.”

Nellie Pennington sighed gratefully.

“You know, Jane, Coley is a nice fellow, but he’s just about as plastic as the Pyramid of Cheops. You’ve done wonders with him, of course, and he is really quite bearable now, but it must have been wearing, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, no,” Jane smiled. “He’s quite obedient.”

“I sometimes wonder whether men are worth the pains we women waste on them.” Mrs. Pennington went on reflectively. “When we are single they adore us for our defects; married, we have a real difficulty in making them love us for our virtues. But love abhors the word obedience. It knows no arbitrary laws. An obedient husband is like an egg without salt and far more indigestible. You’re not going to marry Coley, are you, Jane?” she finished abruptly.

Jane paled and her head tilted the fraction of an inch. It was the first time Nellie Pennington had approached the subject so directly, and Jane had not decided whether to silence her questioner at once or to laugh her off when she broke in again.

“Oh, don’t reply if you don’t want to. I’m sure nothing I could say would have the slightest influence on your decision. It doesn’t matter in the least whom one marries anyway, because whatever the lover is, the husband is always sure to be something quite different. If Coley is obedient now, married he’ll be a Tartar.”

“I—I didn’t say I was going to marry Mr. Van Duyn.”

“You didn’t say you weren’t.”

“Why should I? Must a girl marry, because she receives the attentions–”

“Exclusive attentions,” put in Mrs. Pennington quickly. “Jane, you’re rather overdoing it,” she finished frankly.

“I like Mr. Van Duyn very much,” said Jane, her head lowered.

“But you don’t love him. Oh, Jane,” she whispered earnestly, “play the scene in your own way if you like, but don’t try to hide the real drama from me.”

“There is no drama,” put in Jane. “It was a farce–”

“It’s a drama in Phil Gallatin’s heart. Can you be blind to his struggle?”

“I care nothing for Mr. Gallatin’s struggles,” said Jane, her head high.

“You do. Love like yours comes only once in a woman’s eyes. I saw it–”

“You’re mistaken.”

“No. And it isn’t quenched with laughter–”

“Don’t, Nellie.”

“I must. You’re trying to kill something in you that will not die.”

“It’s dead now.”

“No—nor even sleeping. Don’t you suppose I read you, silly child, your false gayety, the mockery of your smiles, and the way you’ve thrown Coley Van Duyn into the breach to soothe your pride—even let an engagement be undenied so that Phil could think how little you cared? You once let me behind the scenes; no matter how much you regret it, I’m still there.”

“Mr. Gallatin is nothing to me.”

Mrs. Pennington leaned back in her chair and smiled.

“You told me that your faith in Phil was unending. Your eternity, my dear, lasted precisely one week.”

Jane flashed around at her passionately, aroused at last, as Nellie Pennington intended that she should be.

“Oh, why couldn’t he have explained?”

“Explain! At the expense of another girl? Phil is a gentleman.”

Mrs. Pennington had had that reply ready. She had considered it carefully for some days.

Jane paused, and her eyes, scarcely credulous, sought the face of her visitor. Nellie Pennington met her look eagerly.

“Nina Jaffray’s,” she went on. “Could Phil tell why it happened? Obviously not.”

“But he kissed her–”

Mrs. Pennington shrugged her pretty shoulders.

“As to that, Nina, of course, had reasons of her own.”

“Nina—Miss Jaffray—reasons?”

“She probably asked him to–”

“Impossible!”

“She did.”

“Do you know that?”

“No, but I know Nina.”

“I can’t see that that alters anything.”

“But it does—amazingly—if you’ll only think about it.”

“I saw it all.”

“Oh! Did you? I’m glad.”

“Glad! Oh, Nellie!”

“Of course. Think how much worse it might have seemed if you hadn’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If some one else had told you, you might have believed anything.”

“I saw enough to believe–”

“What did you see?”

“He—he—he just kissed her.”

“Oh, Jane, think! What did you see? Why should Phil kiss a girl he doesn’t love? Aren’t there any kisses in the world but lovers kisses? Think. You must. Phil’s whole life and yours depend upon it.”

Jane rose and walked quickly to the window.

“This conversation—is impossible.”

Nellie Pennington watched her narrowly. She had created a diversion upon the flank, which, if it did nothing else, had temporarily driven Jane’s forces back in confusion. She looked anxiously toward the door of the drawing-room and then smiled, for a figure had entered and was coming forward without hesitation.

With one eye on Jane, who was still looking out of the window, Nellie Pennington rose and greeted the newcomer.

“Hello, Phil. I had almost given you up. You don’t mind, do you, Jane. I had to see Mr. Gallatin and asked if he wouldn’t stop for me here.”

At the sound of his name Jane had twisted around and now faced them, breathless. Mrs. Pennington was smiling carelessly, but Phil Gallatin, hat in hand, stood with bowed head before her. At the door into the hallway, the butler, somewhat uncertainly, hovered.

“Thank you, Hastings,” Jane summoned her tongue to say. “That will be all.”

XX
THE INTRUDER

And when the man had gone her voice came back to her with surprising clearness.

“You were going, I think you said, Nellie, dear. So sorry. If you’ll excuse me I think I’ll hurry upstairs. I’m dining out and–”

“Jane!” Gallatin’s voice broke in. “Don’t go. Give me a chance—just half an hour—ten minutes. I won’t take more than that—and then–”

“I’m sorry, but–”

“You wouldn’t see me or reply to my letters, and so I had to choose some other way. Give me a moment,” he pleaded. “You can’t refuse me that.”

“I don’t see—how anything that you say can make the slightest difference—in anything, Mr. Gallatin,” she said haltingly. “We both seem to have been mistaken. It’s very much better to avoid a—a discussion which is sure to—to be painful to us both.”

“What do you know of pain,” he whispered, “if you can’t know the pain of absence? Nothing that you can say will hurt more than that, the pain of being ignored—forgotten—for another. I have stood it as long as I can, but you needn’t be afraid to tell me the truth. If you say that you love—that you’re going to marry Van Duyn, I’ll go—but not until then.”

“Mrs. Pennington is waiting for you, I think,” she gasped. But when she turned and looked into the drawing-room Mrs. Pennington was nowhere to be seen.

“No,” he went on quickly. “She has gone. I asked her to. Oh, Jane, listen to me. I made a mistake—under the impulse of a foolish moment. I’ve been a fool—but I’m not ashamed of my folly. Perhaps it shocks you to hear me say that. But I’m not ashamed—my conscience is clear. Do you think I could look you in the eyes if there was any other image between us? Call me thoughtless, if you like, careless, inconsiderate of conventions, inconsiderate even of you, but don’t insult yourself by imputing motives that never existed—that never could exist while you were in my thoughts. Oh, Jane, can’t you understand? You’re the life—the bone—the breath of me. I have no thought that does not come from you, no wish—no hope that you’re not a part of. What has Nina Jaffray to do with you and me? If I kissed her it was because—because–” He stopped and could not go on.

“That is precisely what I want to know,” she said coolly.

“I—I can’t tell you.”

“No,” she said dryly. “I thought not. Miss Jaffray has every reason to be flattered at your attitude. I can only be thankful that you at least possess the virtue of silence—that you really are man enough to preserve the confidence of the women of your acquaintance. Otherwise, I myself might fare badly.”

“Stop, Jane!” he cried, coming forward and seizing her by the elbows. “It’s sacrilege. Look up into my eyes. You dare not, because you know that I speak the truth, because you know that you’ll discover in them a token of love unending—the same look that you’ve always found there, because when you see it you will recognize it as a force too great to conquer—too mighty to be argued away for the sake of a whim of your injured pride. Look up at me, Jane.”

He had his arms around her now; but she struggled in them, her head still turned away.

“Let me go, Mr. Gallatin,” she gasped. “It can never be. You have hurt me—mortally.”

“No. I’ll never let you go, until you look up in my eyes and tell me you believe in me.”

“It’s unmanly of you,” she cried, still struggling. “Let me go, please, at once.”

Neither of them had heard the opening and closing of the front door, nor seen the figure which now blocked the doorway into the hall, but at the deep tones which greeted them, they straightened and faced Mr. Loring.

“I beg your pardon, Jane,” he was saying with ironical amusement. “I chose the wrong moment it seems,” and then in harsher accents as Gallatin walked toward him. “You! Jane, what does this mean?”

Miss Loring had reached the end of the Davenport where she stood leaning with one hand on its arm, a little frightened at the expression in her father’s face, but more perturbed and shaken by the fluttering of her own heart which told her how nearly Phil Gallatin had convinced her against her will that there was nothing in all the world that mattered except his love and hers.

Her father’s sudden appearance had startled her, too, for though no words had passed between father and daughter, she knew that her mother had already repeated the tale of her romance and of its sudden termination. She tried to speak in reply to Mr. Loring’s question, but no words would come and after a silence burdened with meaning she heard Phil Gallatin speaking.

“It means, Mr. Loring,” he was saying steadily, “that I love your daughter—that I hope, some day, to ask her to be my wife.”

Loring came into the room, his eyes contracted, his bull neck thrust forward, his face suffused with blood.

“You want to marry my daughter? You! I think you’re mistaken.” He stopped and peered at one and then the other. “I’ve heard something about you, Mr. Gallatin,” he said more calmly. “Your ways seem to be crossing mine more frequently than I like.”

“I hardly understand you,” said Gallatin clearly.

“I’ll try to make my meaning plain. We needn’t discuss at once the relations between you and my daughter. Whatever they’ve been or are now, they’re less important than other matters.”

“Other matters!” Gallatin exclaimed. Jane had straightened and came forward, aware of some new element in her father’s antipathy. Loring glanced at her and went on.

“For some weeks past I’ve been aware of the activity of certain interests that you or your pettifogging little firm represent in regard to the plans of the Pequot Coal Company. I’ve followed your movements with some curiosity and read the letters you’ve written to the New York office with not a little amazement.”

“You have read them?”

“Yes, I. I am the Pequot Coal Company, Mr. Gallatin.”

Gallatin drew back a step and glanced at Jane.

“I was not aware–” he began.

“No, I guess not. But it’s about time you were,” Loring chuckled. He walked the length of the room and back, his hands behind him, passing Jane as though he was unaware of her existence, his huge bulk towering before Gallatin again.

“You are trying to stop the sale of the Sanborn mines,” he sneered. “You’re meddling, sir. We tested that matter in the courts. The court records–”

“Your courts, Mr. Loring,” put in Gallatin, now thoroughly aroused. “I’m familiar with the evidence in the case you speak of.”

“My courts!” Loring roared. “The Supreme Court of the State! We needn’t discuss their decisions here.”

“No, but we will discuss them—elsewhere,” he said soberly. He stopped and, with a quick change of voice. “Mr. Loring, you’ll pardon me if I refuse to speak of this further. I’m sorry to learn that–”

“I’m not through yet,” Loring broke in savagely, with a glance at Jane. “We’ve known for some time that the Sanborn case was in the hands of Kenyon, Hood and Gallatin, and we’ve been at some pains to keep ourselves informed as to any action that would be taken by your clients. We know something about you, too, Mr. Gallatin, and we have followed your recent investigations with some interest and not a little amusement. If we ever had any fear of a possible perversion of justice in this case, through your efforts, I may say that it has been entirely removed by our knowledge of your methods and of the personal facts of your career.”

“Father!” Jane’s fingers were on his arm, and her whisper was at his ear, but he raised a hand to silence her, putting her aside.

“You’re aligning yourself with a discredited cause, sir. Your case is a bubble which I promise to prick at the opportune moment. The tone of your letters requesting an interview with a view to reopening the case is impertinent. The compromise suggested is blackmail and will be treated as such.”

Gallatin flushed darkly and then turned white at the insult.

“Mr. Loring, I’ll ask you to choose your words more carefully,” he said angrily, his jaw set.

“I’m not in the habit of mincing words, and I’ll hardly spare you or the people who employ you for the sake of a foolish whim of a girl, even though she is–”

“You must not, Father,” whispered Jane again, in tones of anguish. “You’re in your own house. You’re violating all the–”

“Be quiet,” he commanded shortly, “or leave the room.”

“I can’t be quiet. Mr. Gallatin for the present is my guest and as such–”

“Whatever Mr. Gallatin’s presence here means, there’s little doubt–”

“I—I asked him to come here,” Jane stammered. “I beg you to leave us.”

“No! If Mr. Gallatin has come here at your invitation, all the more reason that you, too, should hear what I have to say to him.”

“I will not listen. Will you please go, Mr. Gallatin, at once?”

Phil Gallatin, pale but composed, was standing immovable.

“Thank you. If there’s something else your father has to say, I’ll listen to it now,” he said. “I can only hope that it will be nothing that he will regret.”

Jane drew aside and threw herself on the divan, her head buried in her hands.

“There’s hardly a danger of that,” said Loring grimly. “I’ll take the risk anyway. I’m in the habit of keeping my house in order, Mr. Gallatin, and I’m not the kind to stop doing it just because a duty is unpleasant. There seems to be something between you and my daughter. God knows what! I have known it for some days, but I haven’t spoken of it to her or hunted for you because I had reason to believe that she had had the good sense to forget the silly romantic ideas you had been putting into her head. I see that I was mistaken. Your presence in this house is the proof of it. I’ll try to make my objections known in language that not only you but my daughter will understand.”

With a struggle Gallatin regained his composure, folded his arms and waited. Jane raised her head, her eyes pleading, then quietly rose and walking across the room, laid her fingers on Phil Gallatin’s arm and stood by his side, facing her father. Mr. Loring began speaking, but she interrupted him quickly.

“Whatever you say to Philip Gallatin, Father, you will say to me. Whatever you know of him—I know, too, past or present. I love him,” she finished solemnly.

One of Gallatin’s arms went around her and his lips whispered, “Thank God for that, Jane.” And then together they faced the older man. Mr. Loring flinched and some of the purple went out of his face, but his lower lip protruded and his bulk seemed to grow more compact as the meaning of the situation grew upon him. His small eyes blinked two or three times and then glowed into incandescence.

“Oh, I see,” he muttered. “It’s as bad as that, is it? I hadn’t supposed–”

“Wait a moment, sir,” said Gallatin clearly. “Call it bad, if you like, but you haven’t a right to condemn me without a hearing.”

Loring laughed. “A hearing? I know enough already, Mr. Gallatin.”

Gallatin took a step forward speaking quietly. “You’re making a mistake. Whatever you’ve heard about me, I’ve at least got the right of any man to defend himself. You’ve already chosen to insult me in your own house. I’ve passed that by, because this is not the time or place to answer. Kenyon, Hood and Gallatin are not easily intimidated—nor am I. I want you to understand that here—now.” His voice fell a note. “When I speak of myself it is a different matter. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, and I don’t much care, for in respect to one thing at least I’ll offer no excuse or extenuation. That’s past and I’m living in the hope that as time goes on, it will not be borne too heavily against me. But you’ve got to believe whether you want to or not that I would rather die than have your daughter suffer because of me.”

“She has suffered already.”

“No, no!” cried Jane. “Not suffered—only lived, father.”

“And now you’ve quit, I suppose,” said the old man ironically, “reformed—turned over a new leaf. See here, Mr. Gallatin, this thing has gone far enough. I’ve listened to you with some patience. Now you listen to me! You’ve come into my house unbidden, invaded my privacy here and insinuated yourself again into the good graces of my daughter, who, I had good reason to believe, had already forgotten you. Your training has served you well. Fortunately I’m not so easily deceived. Until the present moment I have trusted my daughter’s good judgment. Now I find I must use my own. If she isn’t deterred by a knowledge of your history, perhaps I can supply her with information which will not fail. I can hardly conceive that she will overlook your conduct when it involves the reputation of another woman!”

“Father!”

Henry Loring had reached the drawing-room door and now stood, his legs apart, his fists clenched, his words snapping like the receiver of a wireless station.

“Deny—if you like! It will have no conviction with me—or with her. Look at her, Mr. Gallatin,” he said, his finger pointing. “There are limits even to her credulity. She will hardly be pleased to learn of the accident to the motor which obliged you and your companion—very opportunely, indeed, to spend the night in a–”