"Exactly," said Gordon. "Yes, I understand. I trust I shall be equally so. In about fifteen minutes, you think. All right. Good-by."

With a smile he hung up the receiver, and turned again to his work. Ten minutes more, and Harrington, his confidential clerk, entered, a puzzled expression on his face. He bent over the desk and spoke a few words to Gordon in a low tone. Gordon nodded.

"Certainly," he said, "show him in. And, Harrington," he added, "I'm not to be disturbed until I ring; not by any one, you understand. If Rogers should telephone, I'm out of town but expected back any minute, and I'll ring him up as soon as I get in. Remember, I'm not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever, unless I should ring. All right, now. Ask him to step in."

The clerk nodded and withdrew, and Gordon, rising, stood waiting by the window, outwardly calm, inwardly exerting every atom of self-control to keep down his rising excitement, as the crucial moment in the game drew near. Even as he listened, a hurried step sounded in the corridor without, and Palmer burst into the room, flinging the door to behind him as if to shut out some threatened pursuit. His unshaven face was pale and haggard, his eyes bloodshot and wild, his clothing awry, his whole demeanor as unlike that of his every-day, placid self as could by any possibility be imagined. His eyes sought Gordon's face, half in relief, half in fear.

"I've come straight here," he cried hoarsely. "I thought I might have missed you if you'd gone to the island. Gordon, there's the very devil to pay. Have you heard what's happened?"

Gordon, his face set and hard, nodded silently. He motioned to a chair, and seated himself at his desk, his voice, when he spoke, sounding low and constrained.

"Yes, I've heard," he said; "I was just starting for the island when Mrs. Francis got me on the 'phone. Poor woman, she's half out of her mind." He paused, and then his seeming emotion mastered him, sweeping away in an instant his effort at self-control.

"For God's sake, Palmer," he cried aloud, his eyes fixed on the other's face, "how did you come to do it? I can't believe it yet. You! A man of your position! My guest! Great heavens, Palmer, it can't be true! Tell me the whole thing's a lie."

The younger man sat silent with head bowed and eyes fixed on the ground; his hands clenched, his body drawn back as if to avert a blow. Once, twice, he tried to speak, swallowing with difficulty and moistening his dry lips with his tongue. Then unwillingly he raised his eyes to Gordon's face.

"It's true enough," he muttered thickly; "I've been a fool, that's all, and now I suppose there'll be the deuce to pay. Wine and women, damn them both! they've got me into trouble enough before this, but this time I guess they've just about done for me."

Gordon's lip curled contemptuously. "Oh, so you're the one to be pitied," he said at length with slow irony. "Really, Harry, I'll admit that that's the last view of the matter I expected you to take. Why, don't you realize, man, what you've done? Things may be bad enough for you, of course; probably they will be; but can't you think for a minute of that poor girl. What's your trouble compared to hers?"

A tinge of red showed in Palmer's pale face. "Of course I'm sorry for her," he said sulkily. "It was hell coming back from the island. I'm terribly ashamed of myself, and all that, and I'll do anything I can to square things with her. But I can't help thinking about what's going to happen to me, just the same. We've all got to look out for ourselves first. That's human nature."

Gordon gazed at him from half-shut eyes. "Yes," he admitted, "that's human nature, I suppose, beyond a doubt." He paused a moment, and then continued: "Very well, then, if it suits you better, we'll eliminate the girl altogether, and look at things just from your end of it. I suppose the first point is whether the thing becomes known or not. If it does, I imagine there's no question that it will hurt you tremendously. In society in general, it surely will. In your clubs I don't know that it would make so much difference."

Palmer threw back his head with a gesture of uncontrollable agitation. "Damn all that part of it," he cried angrily; "that isn't what I mind. It's what May's going to do if she hears about it. I can't have her know, Gordon; she's the best girl that ever lived, and she's devilish particular about such things. She'd break our engagement in a minute, just as sure as fate, if she knew."

Gordon nodded. "I imagine she would," he said drily. "When you come to think of it, Harry, it is rather a difficult thing for you to explain to her satisfactorily. A man just engaged to one of the most eligible girls in town; supposedly swearing all the usual vows of eternal constancy, and all that; and then, a week or so later, taking deliberate advantage of an unexpected opportunity, and ruining a young girl placed in his care by a friend who had every belief that the man was in all reality the gentleman he seemed. If it comes to that, Harry, and we're to consider anybody's position in the matter except poor Marian's, just think of mine for a moment, and what I'm to say to Mrs. Francis. The dear woman blames me, and in a sense she's perfectly right. I vouched for you, Harry, as my friend and guest, and this is what you thought was due me in return. It's a terrible thing you've done; terrible for Marian, terrible for yourself, terrible for all of us."

Palmer sat with head bowed, shoulders drooping, eyes fixed on the ground, the embodiment of despair. "I admit it," he cried; "I couldn't have done a worse job for everybody concerned if I'd tried. But that's all done with. Now, I want to know what's going to happen next."

Gordon, his hands clasped about his knee, his forehead wrinkled doubtfully, gave himself up to reflection.

"Well," he said at length, "of course it's already occurred to you that some moralists would insist that you marry the girl."

Palmer started nervously. "I know it," he cried; "but it's impossible, Gordon. I couldn't do it. The girl herself wouldn't want that. No girl would."

Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I don't know about that," he answered. "I imagine some girls, the ambitious, designing kind, would jump at the chance. Still, fortunately for you, Marian, of course, is a girl of a very different type. No, as a matter of fact, I don't think, in all candor, she ever wants to set eyes on you again. I suppose you can rest easy on that score."

Palmer glanced up with the first signs of hopefulness on his haggard face. "Then why can't the thing be hushed up?" he asked eagerly. "Why isn't that the best way out of it for every one?"

In spite of the gravity of the occasion, the faintest suggestion of a smile played around Gordon's mouth. "That's human nature," he quoted ironically. "It's best for you, and so it must be best for everybody else. The reasoning's no good, of course, but I'm not sure, though, but what in this case it does happen to work out so. I've been trying to think it over fairly, and consider your position as well as Marian's and her mother's. I suppose, from Marian's point of view, there's nothing to be gained by publicity. The girl's life is practically ruined, Harry; she's completely crushed by what has happened, and I don't think she's got spirit or ambition enough left to wish to make trouble for any one."

Palmer nodded eagerly. "I'm mighty glad she takes it so sensibly," he cried. "I don't see, then, why everything can't be hushed up. I'm certainly willing to do anything at all to make things right."

Gordon shook his head doubtfully. "It isn't as simple a matter as you think, Harry," he said. "I dare say everything could be smoothed over if you had only Marian to reckon with, but you forget her mother. You might not guess it, to see them around together, for Mrs. Francis isn't what you'd call a demonstrative woman, but Marian is the very apple of her eye. She fairly worships the ground the girl treads on, and she's nearly out of her mind with grief. I don't want to worry you unnecessarily, Harry; things are bad enough already; but I suppose it's only right to tell you that she was going to see Miss Sinclair this morning, and I had a pretty bad half hour before I managed to dissuade her. Even at that, I imagine it's only a temporary respite. Sooner or later she's bound to go to Miss Sinclair with the whole story, and, to be frank, I don't suppose we can blame her for a minute."

Palmer groaned. "Oh, God!" he cried, throwing back his head as if in physical torture; "what a fool, what an utter fool I've been! Here's my whole life, my whole happiness ruined, and all for the sake of an evening's cursed pleasure. Gordon, get me out of this damnable mess somehow, and I'll do anything in God's world for you; anything you ask; anything you want."

Gordon shook his head again. "I wouldn't talk that way, Harry," he said more kindly. "You're losing your grip on yourself. There's nothing you could do for me, and if there was, I'd never take advantage of a time like this to try to get you to do it. I hope I'm not that kind of a friend. No, it's a bad outlook, Harry. There's no getting away from that."

He paused a moment, then added doubtfully:

"There's just one possibility I can think of, but it's one I hardly like even to suggest."

Palmer glanced up quickly. "What is it, Gordon?" he cried. "For Heaven's sake, don't torture me! If there's any possible way out, tell me what it is."

Gordon hesitated. "Well," he said reluctantly, "I don't like to speak of money even indirectly in connection with an affair of this kind, because it has a sort of savor of blackmail about it. But I think—mind you, I don't know—I think I know why Mrs. Francis is so terribly wrought up over the whole affair. It's like this with her. Her husband, when he died, left her in charge of a big farm that she's been trying to run herself, I imagine without much success. I guess the place is mortgaged up to the handle; she hasn't been able to sell, and it leaves her practically tied down to her work there. You know what a country neighborhood is; a pretty narrow circle of interests, and consequently a perfect hotbed of gossip. Now, I think the real dread she's got is that somehow this story may leak out, and that she and Marian will be disgraced and looked down upon for the rest of their lives. That's what I gathered, anyway, from the talk I had with her this morning, and I'd hazard a guess that if a purchaser for the farm could somehow be found, and she could be left free to leave home for good and start life over again for Marian, away out west somewhere, she might be made to listen to reason. I may be all wrong, though, and, as I say, it's with the greatest hesitation that I speak of it at all, because it involves money, and I suppose quite a considerable sum—seventy-five to a hundred thousand dollars, I should say off-hand—so perhaps, after all, we'd do better to let her go ahead and see Miss Sinclair. I dare say Miss Sinclair would take this better than you imagine, anyway. She doubtless understands a man's nature."

Palmer laughed mirthlessly. "Understand!" he cried; "Heavens! You don't know her, Gordon. Her mind's as pure as snow. Why, if she knew this, she'd end everything in a minute. No, we've got to keep Mrs. Francis away. That's all there is to it. I'll buy her farm, or a dozen farms, if she's got them, if she'll agree to keep quiet. But if she says she will, can I trust her, Gordon?"

Gordon nodded assent. "Absolutely," he answered. "If she agrees to anything at all, she'll stick to what she says. You needn't worry about that. She's the soul of honor."

Palmer rose abruptly. "I must get back home," he said, more in his usual manner. "I look like the very devil. Ring her up, Gordon, and have her come down here and get the thing settled up, that's a good fellow. I'm half wrong in my head myself over the thing. Get it settled right, Gordon, and I'll never forget it." He hesitated a moment, and then continued awkwardly. "And I'm devilish sorry, Gordon; I really am. And I wish you'd tell the girl so when you see her. I hope you won't lay this up against me. I never meant to do it, and I never would have done it if I hadn't lost my head altogether. I'm sorry. That's all I can say."

Gordon held out his hand. "Harry," he said, "you've done an awful thing, but God forbid that one man should sit in judgment on another. A higher power than ourselves must do that. As far as I'm concerned, I forgive you the wrong you've done, and I'll do all in my power to help you."

Palmer eagerly took the proffered hand. "Gordon, you're a brick!" he said gratefully. "I wish to God I were half as good a chap as you are." And, turning on his heel, he left the office.