That Miss Susan never knew that Lem had stolen from his room that evening was due to the fact that Henrietta had carried the tray to the room. The half-open screen told her how Lem had gone, and when she took the tray down again it was as empty as if a boy with a healthy appetite had dined off its contents. Henrietta ate a rather light supper in consequence.

“I don't feel hungry,” she said in answer to Susan's question, and Susan imagined it was because Henrietta was worrying over the revelation she had been forced to make that Freeman Todder was her husband.

“Don't you worry about what you told me,” Susan said when she found her alone for a moment after supper. “It's all right as long as you're a married couple. The only thing I want is to be able to keep the good name of this boarding-house clear, and speak right up to anybody that questions it, Mrs. Todder.”

“Oh, please don't call me that,” begged Henrietta, in fright.

“I've got to,” said Miss Susan. “I've got to do it once in a while. I've got to be able to say, to anybody that finds out, 'My sakes, I knew it all along. I always called her Mrs. Todder when we was private alone together.' So don't you worry. All I ask is to see your marriage certificate, so I can say I saw it.”

“Of course, I 'll show you that,” agreed Henrietta; but she had a drowning sensation. She could not remember what had become of her marriage certificate; if it was still in existence it might be anywhere.

“Not that I'm in a hurry,” said Susan. “Tomorrow will do. I've got to go up now and see how that boy is getting along, I suppose. If ever there was a fool I was one when I took him.”

“I know you don't mean that,” said Henrietta, putting her hand on Susan's arm. “It has been an annoyance—having that ridiculous policeman come for him—but you really like the boy, Miss Susan. Don't you? In your heart of hearts?”

“I don't like a thief,” said Susan grimly.

“But Lem is not that,” Henrietta urged. “All boys do what he did—most boys—if they have the chance. They mean no wrong, I know.”

“They don't do things like that and stay in my house,” Susan said.

“But Lem is such a dear boy—”

“He'd have to be a whole sight dearer before I'd ever want a thief in my house,” Susan interrupted. “I'll let him stay to-night, but tomorrow back he goes to his worthless parent, money or no money.”

It was evident her dislike was still keen, and Henrietta knew it would never do for his aunt to discover he had decamped, even temporarily, by the window. Lem might not return, but if he did Miss Susan must not know he had ever fled. That, she was sure, Susan would never forgive.

“Let me go up to him, Miss Susan,” she begged. “You're tired and it makes you cross, and I love Lem.”

Miss Susan was willing, and Henrietta went up to the empty room. When she came down she said there was nothing the matter with Lem now, as far as she could see, which was, in a way, true enough, for she had looked out of his window and could not see him at all.

The evening was pleasant. Gay, who had come across the street, and Lorna and Freeman were already on the porch. As Henrietta went out to them, Carter Bruce came up the walk. Gay was on the step, with Freeman at her side, and they were talking in low tones. Bruce hailed every one and stopped in front of Freeman.

“I hear you are going to leave us,” he said. “First I've heard it,” said Todder lightly. “Where did you get that?”

“I got it straight,” Carter said. “I hear you 're going to leave Riverbank the first of the week.”

“Nothing in it,” said Todder carelessly. “Why leave Riverbank where the fairest girls are? Must have meant some other fellow, Bruce.”

“No. You're the man. I'm not mistaken,” Bruce said.

Henrietta leaned forward in her chair. “Stuff!” Freeman laughed carelessly. “Why should I want to leave Riverbank?”

“Come here a minute and I'll tell you what I heard,” said Bruce, keeping to the tone of inoffensive friendliness.

Todder arose and walked a few yards away with Carter Bruce.

“Excuse the secretive males,” Bruce called; and then his tone changed, as he spoke to Todder. “You are going to leave because you have a wife you ought to be looking after, instead of making up to some of the girls here. I've got this straight, understand? So you get out of town before the first of next week or there'll be trouble.”

Todder felt in his pocket for a cigarette.

“Got a wife I ought to be looking after, have I?” he said. “That's glad tidings. Nothing like having a wife. Now, where is this wife of mine?” He did not know how much Carter Bruce knew, or how he had learned what he did know, but he felt fairly positive that Bruce did not know much or he would not have suggested that he ought to be looking after his wife. Henrietta was his wife, and he was, all things considered, fairly close to her even at that moment. “Just where is this wife of mine, Bruce? I'm interested. That's proper, is n't it? A man ought to be interested in his wife.”

“You know where she is,” Bruce said.

“That means you don't,” said Freeman, suddenly taking the offensive. “That means somebody has been lying to you or you have been overworking your imagination. Where is this wife of mine?”

Carter smiled. He had played for this. He watched Freeman Todder's face, to see the sneering smile die when he spoke.

“Your wife,” he said slowly, “is in Colorado.” The effect on Freeman Todder was not at all what Bruce had expected. Instead of cringing he shouted a laugh. He even clapped Bruce on the shoulder.

“You've got me all wrong, Bruce,” he said. “I know what's the matter with you—you're jealous. You're gone on Gay yonder and you're sore because you think I'm cutting you out. Well, don't go spreading any of these 'you're married' lies about me in our beautiful little city, understand? I won't stand that.”

Bruce said nothing. It was evident there was something wrong with his information. He had no reason to doubt that Henrietta believed what she had told him, but something was wrong somewhere. He had tried to “throw a scare” into Todder and the scare had not worked as he had expected. He blamed himself, a lawyer, even if a young one, for having attempted a bluff before he had his evidence in proper shape to back his bluff, but he felt reasonably sure that when he had had another talk with Henrietta he would have the facts so completely in hand that he would be more successful.

Todder lighted his cigarette. This, in Iowa at that date, was in itself equivalent to a show of bravado, for the cigarette was a sign of deep depravity, so much so that the Riverbank audiences were never quite sure the “vilyun” on the stage was actually a villain until he had lighted a “coffin nail.” Even Simon Legree, in “Uncle Tom's Cabin” had to come to it, and if Uncle Tom had put match to a cigarette he would have lost the sympathy and gained the hatred of all respectable citizens. By lighting a cigarette Freeman Todder was, in a way, flaunting his devilishness in the face of his rival.

“Your jealousy has given you wheels in the head, that's what's the matter with you, Bruce,” Todder said carelessly. “If you want to get the real inside information about my wife affairs, past, present, or to be, I 'll give it to you straight. The only wife I ever expect to have is sitting on that porch. There you have it and you can do what you please with it. You can stand here if you want to; I'm going back and talk to Gay.” Bruce walked back at his side.

“I seem to have been mistaken,” he said in the tone he would have used had he believed he was mistaken, and in a few minutes the incident seemed to be forgotten.

Henrietta, however, was greatly disturbed. She could not guess what had passed between the two men nor how much Bruce had told or Todder guessed. She was, for the moment, exceedingly unhappy. She looked at Freeman closely, trying to judge what had been said, but his face offered no information.

If anything Bruce had said so acted on Freeman that the latter tried to leave town, the very worst was apt to happen. Johnnie Alberson, thinking he had been played a trick, would in all probability have Freeman arrested. That would very promptly end everything. Henrietta drew her chair far back in the shadow of the porch and sat silent, trying to plan something when there was in fact nothing that could be planned until she had spoken with Freeman. She had closed her eyes, trying to think, when she heard Lorna say, “Who's that?”

Henrietta peered into the dusk and saw a plump, jaunty figure coming up the walk toward the house.

“It's Johnnie Alberson,” Freeman answered Lorna.

It was Johnnie Alberson. He came to the porch smiling and swinging his light cane, his straw hat in his hand.

“Hello! quite a party,” he said. “Won't anybody offer a fat, old man a seat?”

He walked between Lorna and Gay, up the steps, and peered into the shadows of the porch.

“Is that you, Miss Redding?” he asked.

Henrietta had hoped she would not be seen. At that moment there was no one she less wished to see than Johnnie Alberson.

“No, this is Miss Bates,” she said; and Johnnie, excusing himself for making the mistake, went to her end of the porch and took the chair at her side. He was pleased, because he had hoped to find her there. It had been a thought of Henrietta that had sent him tramping up the long hill. He had, after Henrietta's visit to the drug store, thought of Henrietta quite a little and he had decided that—unless his memory deceived him—she was just about the finest woman he had ever seen; that she was the sort of woman with whom he would enjoy a flirtation, let it go as far as it might.

“Like meeting an old friend,” he said, putting his hat carefully on the floor. “And I hope we'll be better friends. Mother has gone to Dubuque to spend a couple of weeks and I'm going to ask Miss Redding to take me in, if she has room.”

“That will be nice,” said Henrietta warmly, but she felt that the coming of Johnnie was almost too much.