I'd strolled into the front office in my shirt sleeves, and was leanin' against the gym door listenin' to Pinckney and his friend slangin' each other—and, believe me, it's a wonderful gift to be able to throw the harpoon refined and polite that way!

"Larry," says Pinckney, lookin' him over reproachful, "you are hopeless. You merely cumber the earth."

"Having made an art of being useless," says Larry, "you should be an excellent judge."

"You think you flatter me," says Pinckney; "but you don't. I live my life as it comes. You are botching yours."

"Hear, hear!" says Larry. "The butterfly sermonizes!"

"Insect yourself!" says Pinckney.

"My word!" says Larry. "Chucking entomology at me too! Well, have it that I'm a grasshopper. My legs are long enough."

"It's your ears that are long, Larry," says Pinckney.

"There you go, mixing the metaphor!" says Larry. "So I'm an ass, eh?"

"The word strikes me as beautifully descriptive," says Pinckney.

"Excuse me," says I, breakin' in, "but is this to a finish? If it is, I'll send out for some throat troches."

Larry grins and settles himself back easy in my desk chair. Great lad, this Mr. T. Lawrence Bolan! All he needs is a cape coat and a sugar-loaf hat with a silver buckle to be a stage Irishman. One of these tall, loose-hinged, awkward-gaited chaps, with wavy red hair the color of a new copper pan, also a chin dimple and a crooked mouth. By rights he should have been homely. Maybe he was too; but somehow, with that twisty smile of his workin', and them gray-blue eyes twinklin' at you, the word couldn't be said.

"Look at him, Shorty!" says Pinckney. "Six feet of futile clay; a waster of time, money, and opportunity."

"The three gifts that a fool tries to save and a wise man spends with a free hand," says Larry. "Give me a cigarette."

"How much, now, did you lose to that crowd of bridge sharks last night?" demands Pinckney, passin' over a gold case.

"Not my self-respect, anyway," says Larry. "Was I to pass cowardly with a hundred aces in hand? And I had the fun of making that Boomer-Day person quit bidding on eight hearts. How she did glare as she doubled me!"

"Set you six hundred, I hear," says Pinckney. "At a quarter the point that's no cheap fun."

"Who asks for cheap fun?" says Larry. "I paid the shot, didn't I?"

"And now?" asks Pinckney.

Larry shrugs his shoulders. "The usual thing," says he; "only it happens a little earlier in the month. I'm flat broke, of course."

"Then why in the name of all folly will you not borrow a couple of hundred from me?" demands Pinckney.

"Would I pay it back?" says Larry. "No, I would not. So it would be begging, or stealing? You see how awkward that makes it, old chap?"

"But, deuce take it! what are you to do for the next three weeks, you know?" insists Pinckney.

"Disappear," says Larry, wavin' his cigarette jaunty, "and then—

"The haunts that knew him once
No more shall know.
The halls where once he trod
With stately tread—er—
Tum-ti-iddity—
As the dead—

or words, my dear Pinckney, much to that effect. My next remittance should be here by the third."

"When you'll reappear and do it all over again," says Pinckney.

"In which you're quite wrong," says Larry. "Not that I am bitten by remorse; but I weary of your game. It's a bit stupid, you know,—your mad rushing about here and there, plays, dinners, dances, week-ends. You're mostly a good sort; but you've no poise, no repose. Kittens chasing your tails! It leaves no chance to dream dreams."

"Listen," says Pinckney, "to that superior being, the lordly Briton, utter his usual piffle! I suppose you'd like to marry, settle down on a hundred-acre estate nine miles from nowhere, and do the country gentleman?"

"It would be the making of me," says Larry, "and I could be reasonably happy at it."

"Then why not do it?" demands Pinckney.

"On a thousand pounds a year?" says Larry. "Go to!"

"The fact remains," says Pinckney, "that you have for an uncle the Earl of Kerrymull."

"And that I'm his best hated nephew, paid to keep out of his sight," comes back Larry.

"But you are where an Earl-uncle counts for most," suggests Pinckney. "By judicious choice of a father-in-law——"

"Rot!" breaks in Larry. "Am I a cheap adventurer in a third-rate melodrama? Waster I may be; but no dowry hunter."

"As though you could not like, for herself alone, any one of the half-dozen pretty girls who are foolish enough to be crazy over you," says Pinckney.

"As though I'd be blighter enough to let myself fall in love with any of the sweet dears!" says Larry. "I'm in my thirties, Man."

"There's widows aplenty," hints Pinckney.

"Bless 'em all!" says Larry. "I'd not load one of them with a wild, impecunious Irishman like myself."

"Then what?" says Pinckney. "Also where, and whither?"

"Bulgaroo," says Larry, wavin' vague into space.

"Is that a form of self-destruction?" asks Pinckney.

"Almost," says Larry. "It's the nearest town to Sir Horace Vaughn's No. 6 sheep ranch. Quaint little spot, Bulgaroo; chiefly corrugated iron villas and kangaroo scrub, two hundred-odd miles back from Sidney. I'm due there at the end of next month."

"My regards to the Bulgaroovians," says I.

"Is this just a whim of yours, or a crazy plan?" says Pinckney.

"Both," says Larry. "No. 6 is where I went to do penance when the Earl and I had our grand smashup. Eighteen months I put in before he settled an allowance on me. They'll give me another foreman's job. I'll stay three years this time, saving pay and remittance drafts, and at the end I'll have hoarded enough to buy an interest, or a ranch of my own. That's the theory. Actually, I shall probably take an amazing thirst into Bulgaroo about once a month, buy vile champagne at the Queen's Arms, and otherwise disport myself like a true sheepherder. The finis will not sound pretty."

Pinckney stares at him puzzled for a minute, and then turns to me. "Shorty," says he, "you're a Celt. What do you make of him?"

"My guess is that there's a skirt in the background," says I.

"Oh-ho!" says Pinckney.

"Touched!" says Larry.

Pinckney aims the cigarette case at him, remarkin' savage, "The story or your life. Come, now!"

Larry springs that wistful, twisty smile of his and goes on. "It happened here, eight years ago, as I was on my way to No. 6. I'd picked up a beastly fever somewhere, and I knew not a soul in your blessed city. So I wabbled into a hospital and let them tuck me away in a cot. Now grin, blast you! Yes, she was one of the day nurses, Katie McDevitt. No raving beauty, you know. Ah, but the starry bright eyes of her, the tender touch of her soft hand, and the quick wits under her white cap! It wasn't just the mushy sentiment of a convalescent, either. Three grand weeks afterwards I waited around, going walks with her in the park, taking her on foolish steamer rides, sending her flowers, notes, candy. We were rare spoons, and she was as good as she was witty. There was an idyl for you! Then, when I woke up one day—why, I ran away without a word! What else could I do? I was bound for an Australian sheep ranch. And there I went. Since then not a whisper of her. By now it's quite likely she's the wife of some lucky dog of a doctor, and never gives me a thought. So why shouldn't I go back?"

"Because, you crack-brained Irishman," says Pinckney, "when you're not maundering over some such idiocy as this, you're the most entertaining good-for-nothing that ever graced a dinner table or spread the joy of life through a dull drawing room. Come home with me for the week-end, anyway."

"I'll not," says Larry. "I'm a pauper."

"Will you go with Shorty, then?" says Pinckney. "At times he's as absurd as yourself."

"He's not asked me," says Larry.

"My tongue's drippin' with it," says I. "I had an own cousin come over from Kerrymull. You'll be welcome."

"Done!" says Larry. "And for board and lodging I'll sing you Ballyshone after dinner."

So he did too, and if you've ever heard it well sung, you'll know the lump I had in my throat as I listened. Also I had him tell Sadie about Katie McDevitt; and when he'd made friends with little Sully and the dog we could have kept him for a year and a day.

But that Sunday afternoon, while we was swingin' out of the front gates for a walk, we stops to let a limousine whizz by, and we gets a glimpse of a woman's face through the windows.

"Lord love you, McCabe!" says Larry, grippin' me by the arm, "but who was that?"

"In the car?" says I. "No one but Mrs. Sam Steele."

"Mrs., did you say?" says he.

"The rich widow," says I, "that lives in the big house over on the Shore Drive." I pointed it out.

"A widow!" says he. "Thanks be! Shorty, she's the one!"

"Not your Miss McDevitt?" says I.

"No other," says he. "I'd swear it!"

"Then you're nutty in the head, Mr. Larry Bolan," says I; "for I've known her these two years, and never heard of her being an ex-nurse."

"She might not care to boast of it," says he. "Rich, did you say?"

"Near a million, they say," says I; "which don't fit in with the nurse idea, does it?"

"I couldn't mistake Katie McDevitt," says he, waggin' his head mulish. "But who was this Steele beggar?"

"She moved here after plantin' him West somewhere," says I. "One of the big lumber crowd, I've heard. Sadie can tell you more."

"Thanks," says he; "but I'll have it from Katie herself. Take me there."

"Eh?" says I. "On a chance shot? I'd look well, wouldn't I?"

"But you must," says he. "Now!"

"Come off!" says I. "You with only a glance at her! Besides, she's one of these stiff, distant parties that keeps to herself."

"McCabe," says he, "I mean to talk with her within the hour if I have to smash in her front door and wring a butler's neck."

There's a thrill in his voice as he says it, and from all I know of Larry Bolan there's no stoppin' him. We started off.

The nearer we got to the big house, though, the battier the enterprise seemed to me. First off, I'd been nursin' a dislike for Mrs. Steele ever since I'd overheard a little sÉance between her and one of the outside men. She'd caught him smugglin' home a few measly vegetables from her big garden, and after tongue lashin' him lively she fires him on the spot—him a poor Dago with a big fam'ly. Then there'd been tales told by the butcher, the plumber, and half a dozen others, all goin' to show she was a lady tightwad, or worse.

So I'd sized her up as a cold, hard proposition. And when I work up feelin's like that I'm apt to show 'em. I couldn't help thinkin' but maybe I had. Here I was, though, cartin' a strange gent up to her front door, on his guess that he's her long lost Romeo.

"Ah, be good, Larry!" says I. "Let's call it off."

He shakes his head stubborn.

"All right," says I; "but take it from me we're about to pull down trouble. What's the plan?"

He thinks, as long as I know the lady, I'd better send in my name and then break it to her easy. So, while I'm waitin' in the reception hall, he kicks his heels impatient against the veranda rail outside.

Rather a classy lookin' party, Mrs. Steele is as she shows up in a stunnin' house gown,—good lines, fine complexion, and all that. Takes mighty good care of herself, so Sadie says, with two French maids to help. She don't stint herself that way. And the little streak of early gray through her front hair gives her sort of a distinguished look. There's nothin' friendly, though, about the straight, tight-lipped mouth, or the surprised look in her eyes as she discovers me standin' there.

"Mr. McCabe?" says she.

"You see," says I, grinnin' foolish, "there's a chap outside who—who has a batty idea he used to know you."

"Really?" says she, narrowin' her eyes a bit.

"Bolan's the name, Ma'am," I goes on, "Larry Bolan."

It wa'n't much,—just a quiver, a little lift of the shoulders, a bunchin' of the fingers. Then she bites her lip and gets a grip on herself. "Well?" says she. "What of it?"

"Why," says I, "he—he wants to have a talk with you. Course, though, if you don't know him, or don't remember, all you got to do——"

"Yes, yes!" she breaks in. "I understand. Wait!"

A couple of minutes she stands there, never makin' a crack or givin' any sign, except that the toe of one slipper taps the rug restless. Then she gives her decision. "You may bring him in," says she.

"How about sendin' him?" I suggests.

"No, not alone," says she. "I want you to stay."

So I steps to the door. "Larry," says I, "you're called on the carpet; but for the love of soup don't pull any of that old sweetheart stuff reckless! The signs ain't right."

And a fat lot of notice he takes of my advice. Trust Larry! He pushes in eager ahead of me, marches straight to where she is, gives her one mushy, admirin' look, and the next thing I know he has reached for one of her hands and is kissin' it as graceful and romantic as James K. Hackett doin' a Zenda stunt.

Gave Mrs. Steele some jolt, that play did; for it's plain she was fixin' to frost him at the start. But it's all over before she has time to draw a breath, and he has let her fingers slip through his caressin'.

"Katie!" says he.

She flushes and stiffens up. "Silly as ever, I see," says she.

"More so," says he. "But it's only seeing you again that brings on the attack. Katie, you're glorious!"

"Please!" says she, protestin'. "I've rather outgrown my liking for sentimental speeches. Tell me, why do you hunt me up like this, after so long?"

"Can you ask?" says he. "Look! No—in my eyes, Katie."

And, say, with things gettin' that gummy, I was beginnin' to feel like a cold boiled potato served accidental with the pie.

"Excuse me," says I, "but maybe I'd better wait in the next room."

"Not at all," says Mrs. Steele, real crisp and businesslike. "It will be only for a moment, while Mr. Bolan states very briefly his exact purpose in coming here."

Larry bows. "To see once more the girl he could not forget," says he.

"Humph!" says she, curlin' her upper lip. "Very pretty, I suppose. But let me assure you that foolish young person ceased to exist several years ago."

"She lives for me—here," says Larry, placin' one hand on his left vest pocket.

Mrs. Steele indulges in a thin little cold-storage laugh that sounds almost as pleasant as tappin' a gas pipe. "What a sudden revival of an old, worn-out affection!" says she. "When did you first hear I was a widow?"

"Less than an hour ago," says Larry.

"Did they say I was rich, or poor?" she goes on sarcastic.

"Katie!" says he gaspy. "Surely you—you can't think——"

"It's what I ask them all," says she, "domestic and imported. Naturally I am a little suspicious when they declare passionate love at the first or second meeting; for, in spite of what my maids tell me, my mirror insists that I'm not ravishingly beautiful. So I've begun to suspect that perhaps my money may be the attraction. And I'm not in the market for a husband, you know."

"Bing-g-g!" says I under my breath.

As for Larry Bolan, it leaves him with his chin down. For, after all, he ain't one of your walrus-hided gents. As a matter of fact, he's as sensitive as they come, and she couldn't have handed it out rougher.

"My dear lady," says he, "you are pleased to be cruel. Perhaps, though, it's only my due. I admit that I'm only a poor pensioner posing as a gentleman. But within a month I shall be on my way to bury myself on the other side of the world. Meanwhile, I see you pass. Could I help wanting a few kind words of yours to take with me?"

"If that is really all, Mr. Bolan," says she, "I would advise you to outlive your nonsense, as I've outlived mine. Try paying your tailor with kind words."

"Katie," says he, with a sob in his voice, "you—you've broken the heart of me. Come, McCabe, we will go."

She stands watchin' us, smilin' cynical, until we're almost through the door; and then—well, it's a sigh that comes out explosive. She starts as if she meant to dash after us, and then stops with her arms out.

"Larry!" says she, almost in a whisper.

It pulls him up, and he stares at her a minute over his shoulder. "It's no use, Katie," says he. "What's turned you hard and cold I don't know; but you can't unsay what's been said. And it hurt—bitter."

"Oh, I know, I know!" says she. "But you must hear what it was that changed me from the girl you knew. Money, Larry, the money for which I married. As for the man—oh, I suppose he was no worse than the rest; only he taught me to love a dollar more than anything else in earth or heaven. He'd wrung all of his from a grudging world with his bare hands,—starved and slaved and plotted for it, in mean ways, against mean men; then fought to hold it. And he knew to a penny's worth what every dollar he spent should buy for him. Among other things, he bought me. Sixty-odd he was; I barely twenty. Why call it differently? I was fool enough, too, to think I was a lucky girl. Ah, what a fool! Seven years of fear and hate! It's an awful thing, Larry, to live so long with hate in you for one at your side. But he—he never knew."

She leaves off, squeezin' one hand in the other until the ends of the fingers went white, her chest heavin', her eyes stary. Larry watches her without a word.

"Tell me," says she after a bit, "why you ran away that time and left me to—to make such a mess of things. Why?"

"For the same reason that I'm going away again now," says he. "I've a thousand pounds a year, and not sense enough to keep myself on it, let alone a wife. So it's good-by, Katie."

Then the weeps came, open eyed; but she didn't try to hide 'em. "Oh, oh!" she moans. "But I was so lonely then, and—and I'm so lonely now!"

Them few drops of brine turned the trick. "Ah, Katie McDevitt!" says he. "If I could bring back the old Katie! By the soul of me, but I will? You never heard of my old uncle, did you? Come with me to him, and see me make it up; for I can't leave you this way, Katie, I just can't!"

"Larry!" says she, and with that they goes to a fond clinch.

"Help!" says I, and slides through the door.

When I gets home Sadie wants to know what I've done with Mr. Bolan.

"Towed him up to Hymen's gate," says I, "and left him bein' yanked through by Mrs. Sam Steele."

"Wha-a-at?" says she. "Of all persons! And when did that start, I'd like to know?"

"Eight years back," says I. "She was Katie the nurse, and this is their second act. Anyway, he ducks Bulgaroo by it."