Bonbright was on his hands and knees on the edge of the lake, dizzily slopping water on his head and face. He was struggling toward consciousness, fighting dazedly for the power to act. As one who, in a dream, reviews the events of another half-presented dream, he knew what had happened. Consciousness had not fully deserted him. Dulac had attacked him; Dulac had carried Ruth away…. Somehow he had no fears for her personal safety, but he must follow. He must KNOW that she was safe….

Not many minutes had passed since Dulac struck him down. His body was strong, well trained to sustain shocks and to recover from them, thanks to four years of college schooling in the man's game of football. Since he left college he had retained the respect for his body which had been taught him, and with golf and tennis and gymnasium he had kept himself fit… so that now his vital forces marshaled themselves quickly to fight his battle for him. Presently he raised himself to his feet and stood swaying dizzily; with fingers that fumbled he tied his handkerchief about his bruised head and staggered toward his car, for his will urged him on to follow Dulac.

To crank the motor (for the self-starter had not yet arrived) was a task of magnitude, but he accomplished it and pulled himself into the seat. For a moment he lay upon the steering wheel, panting, fighting back his weakness; then he thrust forward his control lever and the car began to move. The motion, the kindly touch of the cool night air against his head, stimulated him; he stepped on the gas pedal and the car leaped forward as though eager for the pursuit.

Out into the main road he lurched, grimly clutching the steering wheel, leaning on it for support, his aching, blurred eyes clinging to the illuminated way before him, and he drove as he had never ventured to drive before. Beating against his numbed brain was his will's sledge-hammer demands for speed, and he obeyed recklessly….

Roadside objects flicked by, mile after mile was dropped behind, the city's outskirts were being snatched closer and closer—and then he saw the other car far ahead. All that remained to be asked of his car he demanded now, and he overhauled the smaller, less speedy machine. Now his lights played on its rear and his horn sounded a warning and a demand. Dulac's car veered to the side to let him pass, and he lurched by, only turning a brief, wavering glance upon the other machine to assure himself that Ruth was there. He saw her in a flashing second, in the tonneau, with Dulac by her side…. She was safe, uninjured. Then Bonbright left them behind.

The road narrowed, with deep ditches on either hand. Here was the place he sought. He set his brakes, shut off his power, and swung his car diagonally across the way, so that it would be impossible for Dulac to pass. Then he alighted, and stood waiting, holding on to his machine for support.

The other car came to a stop and Dulac sprang out. Bonbright saw Ruth rise to follow; heard Dulac say, roughly: "Get back. Stay where you are."

"No," she replied, and stepped to the road.

Bonbright could see how pale she was, how frightened.

"Don't be afraid," he said to her. "Nothing is going to—happen."

He stood erect now, free from the support of the car, waiting for
Dulac, who approached menacingly.

"Dulac," he said, "I can't—fight you. I can't even—-defend myself—much…. Unless you insist."

The men were facing each other now, almost toe to toe. Dulac's face was stormy with passion under scant restraint; Bonbright, though he swayed a bit unsteadily, faced him with level eyes. Ruth saw the decent courage of the boy and her fear for him made her clutch Dulac's sleeve. The man shook her off.

"I know—why you attacked me," said Bonbright, slowly, "what you thought…. I—stopped you to—be sure Miss Frazer was safe… and to tell you you were—wrong…. Not that you have a—right to question me, but nobody must think—ill of Miss Frazer…. No misunderstanding…."

"Get that car out of the way," said Dulac.

Bonbright shook his head. "Not till I'm—through," he said. "Then you may—take Miss Frazer home…. But be kind to her—gentle…. I shall ask her about it—and I sha'n't be—knocked out long."

"You threaten me, you pampered puppy!"

"Yes," said Bonbright, grimly, "exactly."

Dulac started to lift his arm, but Ruth caught it. "No…. No," she said, in a tense whisper. "You mustn't. Can't you see how—hurt he is? He can hardly stand…. You're not a COWARD…."

"Dulac," said Bonbright, "here's the truth: I took Miss Frazer to the lake to—ask her to—marry me…. No other reason. She was—safe with me—as with you. I want her for—my wife. Do you understand?… You thought—what my father thought."

Ruth uttered a little cry. So THAT was what had happened!

"All the decency in the world," Bonbright said, "isn't in—union men, workingmen…. Because I have more money than you—you want to believe—anything of me…. You're even willing to—believe it of her…. I can—love as well as if I were poor…. I can—honor and respect the girl I want to marry as well as if I—carried a union card…. That is TRUE."

Dulac laughed shortly; then, even in his rage, he became oratorical, theatrical.

"We know the honor and respect of your kind…. We know what our sisters and daughters have to expect from you. We've learned it. You talk fair—you dangle your filthy money under their eyes—you promise this and you promise that…. And then you throw away your toys…. They come back to us covered with disgrace, heart-broken, marked forever, and fit to be no man's wife…. That's your respect and honor. That's your decency…. Leave our women alone…. Go to your bridge-playing, silly, husband-swapping society women. They know you. They know what to expect from you—and get what they deserve. Leave our women alone…. Leave this girl alone. We men have to endure enough at your hands, but we won't endure this…. We'll do as I did to-night. I thrashed you—"

"Like a coward, in the dark, from behind," said Bonbright, boyish pride insisting upon offering its excuse. "I didn't stop you to argue about capital and labor. I stopped you—to tell you the truth about to-night. I've told it."

"You've lied the way your kind always lies."

Bonbright's lips straightened, his eyes hardened, and he leaned forward. "I promised Miss Frazer nothing—should happen. It sha'n't. … But you're a fool, Dulac. You know I'm telling the truth—but you won't admit it—because you don't want to. Because I'm not on your side, you won't admit it…. And that makes you a fool…. Be still. You haven't hesitated to tell me I lied. I've taken that—and you'll take what I have to say. It isn't much. I don't know much about the—differences between your kind and my kind…. But your side gets more harm than good from men like you. You're a blind fanatic. You cram your men on lies and stir them up to hate us…. Maybe there's cause, but you magnify it…. You won't see the truth. You won't see reason…. You hold us apart. Maybe you're honest—fanatics usually are, but fanatics are fools. It does no good to tell you so. I'm wasting my breath…. Now take Miss Frazer home—and be careful how you treat her."

He turned his back squarely and pulled himself into his car. Then he turned to Ruth. "Good night, Miss Frazer," he said. "I am sorry—for all this…. May I come for—your answer to-morrow?"

"No…." she said, tremulously. "Yes…."

Bonbright straightened his car in the road and drove on. He was at the end of his strength. He wanted the aid of a physician, and then he wanted to lie down and sleep, and sleep. The day that had preceded the attack upon him had been wearing enough to exhaust the sturdiest. The tension of waiting, the anxiety, the mental disturbance, had demanded their usual wages of mind and body. Sudden shock had done the rest.

He drove to the private hospital of a doctor of his acquaintance, a member of his club, and gained admission. The doctor himself was there, by good fortune, and saw Bonbright at once, and examined the wounds in his scalp.

"Strikers get you?" he asked.

"Automobile mix-up," said Bonbright, weakly.

"Uh-huh!" said the doctor. "I suppose somebody picked up a light roadster and struck you over the head with it…. Not cut much. No stitches. A little adhesive'll do the trick—and then…. Sort of excited, eh? Been under a bit of a strain?… None of my business, of course…. Get into bed and I'll send up something to tone you down and make you sleep. You've been playing in too high a key—your fiddle strings are too tight."

Getting into that cool, soft bed was one of the pleasantest experiences of Bonbright's life. He was almost instantly asleep—and he still slept, even at the deliberate hour that saw his father enter the office at the mills.

Mr. Foote was disturbed. He had not seen his son since the boy flung out of the office the morning before; had had no word of him. He had expected Bonbright to come home in the evening and had waited for him in the library to have a word with him. He had come to the conclusion that it would be best to throw some sort of sop to Bonbright in the way of apparent authority, of mock responsibility. It would occupy the boy's mind, he thought, while in no way altering the conditions, not affecting the end to be arrived at. Bonbright must be held…. If it were necessary to administer an anaesthetic while the operation of remaking him into a true Foote was performed, why, the anaesthetic would be forthcoming.

But Bonbright did not come, even with twelve strokes of the clock. His father retired, but in no refreshing sleep…. On that day no progress had been made with the Marquis Lafayette. That work required a calm that Mr. Foote could not master.

His first act after seating himself at his desk was to summon Rangar.

"My son was not at home last night," he said. "I have not seen him since yesterday morning. I hope you can give me an account of him."

"Not home last night, Mr. Foote!" Manifestly Rangar was startled. He had not been at ease before, for he had been unable to pick up any trace of the boy this morning; had not seen him return home the night before…. It might be that he had gone too far when he sent his anonymous note to Dulac. Dulac had gone in pursuit, of that he had made sure. But what had happened? Had the matter gone farther than the mere thrashing he had hoped for?… He was frightened.

"I directed you to keep him under your eye."

"Your directions were followed, Mr. Foote, so far as was possible. I know where he was yesterday, and where he went last night, but when a young man is running around the country in an automobile with a girl, it's mighty hard to keep at his heels. He was with that girl."

"When?… What happened?"

"He waited for her at the Lightener plant. She works there now. They drove out the Avenue together—some place into the country. Mr. Bonbright is a member of the Apple Lake Club, and I was sure they were going there…. That's the last I know."

"Telephone the Apple Lake Club. See if he was there and when he left."

Rangar retired to do so, and returned presently to report that Bonbright and a young lady had dined there, but had not been seen after they left the table. Nobody could say when they went away from the club.

"Call Malcolm Lightener—at his office. Once the boy stayed at his house."

Rangar made the call, and, not able to repress the malice that was in him, went some steps beyond his directions. Mr. Lightener was on the wire.

"This is Rangar, Mr. Lightener—Bonbright Foote, Incorporated. Mr. Foote wished me to inquire if you had seen Mr. Bonbright between six o'clock last night and this morning."

"No…. Why does he ask me? What's the matter?"

"Mr. Foote says Bonbright stayed with you one night, and thought he might have done so again. Mr. Foote is worried, sir. The young man has—er—vanished, so to speak. He was seen last at your plant about five o'clock. In his automobile, Mr. Lightener. He was waiting for a young woman who works for you—a Miss Frazer, I understand. Used to be his secretary. They drove away together, and he hasn't been seen since…. Mr. Foote has feared some sort of—er—understanding between them."

"Huh!" grunted Lightener. "Don't know anything about it. Tell Foote to look after his own son… if he knows how." Then the receiver clicked.

Lightener swung away from the telephone and scowled at the wall. "He don't look it," he said, presently, "and I'm darned if SHE does…. Huh!…" He pressed a button. "Send in Miss Frazer," he said to the boy who answered the buzzer.

In a moment Ruth stood in the door. He let her stand while he scrutinized her briefly. She looked ill. Her eyes were dull and marked by surrounding darkness. She had no color. He shook his head Like a displeased lion.

"Miss Frazer," he said, gruffly, "I make it a practice always to mind my own business except when there's some reason for not minding it—which is frequent."

"Yes, sir," she said, as he paused.

"Yes, sir…. Yes, sir. What do YOU know about it? Come in and shut the door. Come over here where I can look at you. What's the matter? Ill? If you're sick what are you doing here? Home's the place for you."

"I'm not ill, Mr. Lightener."

"Huh!… I liked your looks—like 'em yet. Like everybody's looks who works here, or I wouldn't have 'em…. You're all right, I'll bet a dollar—all RIGHT…. You know young Foote got you your job here?"

He saw the sudden intake of her breath as Bonbright's name was mentioned. "Yes," she said, faintly.

"What about him?… Know him well? LIKE HIM?"

"I—I know him quite well, Mr. Lightener. Yes, I—like him."

"Trust him?"

She looked at him a moment before replying; then her chin lifted a trifle and there came a glint into her eyes. "Absolutely," she said.

"Um!… Good enough. So do I…. Enough to let him play around with my daughter…. Has he anything to do with the way you look to-day?… Not a fair question—yet. You needn't answer."

"I shouldn't," she said, and he smiled at the asperity of her tone.

"Mr. Bonbright Foote seems to be causing his family anxiety," he said. "He's disappeared…. I guess they think you carried him off. Did you go somewhere with him in his car last night?"

"You have no right to question me, Mr. Lightener."

"Don't I know it? I tell you I like you and I like him—and I think his father's a stiff-backed, circumstantial, ancestor-ridden damn fool…. Something's happened or Foote wouldn't be telephoning around. He's got reason to be frightened, and good and frightened. … A girl, especially a girl in your place, hasn't any business being mixed up in any mess, much less with a young millionaire…. That's why I'm not minding my own business. You work for me, don't you—and ain't I responsible for you, sort of? Well, then? Were you with Bonbright last night?"

"Yes, sir."

"Huh!… Something happened, didn't it?" "Nothing that—Mr. Foote had anything to do with—"

"But something happened. What?"

"I can't tell you, Mr. Lightener."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know."

"When did you see him last?"

"A little after nine o'clock last night."

"Where?"

"Going toward home—I thought."

"He didn't go there. Where else would he go?"

"I don't—know." Her voice broke, her self-control was deserting her.

"Hey!… Hold on there. No hysterics or anything. Won't have 'em. Brace up."

"Let me alone, then," she said, childishly. "Why can't you let me alone?"

"I—Confound it! I'm not deviling you. I'm trying to haul you out of a muss. Quit it, will you?" She had sunk into a chair and covered her face. He got up and stood over her, scowling. "Will you stop it? Hear me? Stop it, I tell you'… What's the matter—anyhow? If Bonbright Foote's done anything to you he hadn't ought to I'll skin him alive."

The door opened and Hilda Lightener tripped into the room. "Hello, dad!" she said. "Surprise…. I want to—" She stopped to look at her father, and then at Ruth, crouched in her chair. "What's the matter, dad?" Hilda asked. "You haven't been scaring this little girl? If you have—" She paused threateningly.

"Oh, the devil!… I'll get out. You see if you can make her stop it. Cuddle her, or something. I've done a sweet job of it…. Miss Frazer, this is my daughter. Er—I'm going away from here." And he went, precipitately.

There was a brief silence; then Hilda laid her hand on Ruth's head. "What's dad been doing to you?" she asked. "Scare you? His bark's a heap sight worse than his bite."

"He—he's good," said Ruth, tearfully. "He was trying to be good to me…. I'm just upset—that's all. I'll be—all right in a moment." But she was not all right in a moment. Her sobs increased. The strain, the anxiety, a sleepless night of suffering—and the struggle she had undergone to find the answer to Bonbright's question—had tried her to the depths of her soul. Now she gave quite away and, unwillingly enough, sobbed and mumbled on Hilda Lightener's shoulder, and clung to the larger girl pitifully, as a frightened baby clings to its mother.

Hilda's face grew sober, her eyes darkened, as, among Ruth's broken, fragmentary, choking words, she heard the name of Bonbright Foote. But her arm did not withdraw from about Ruth's shoulders, nor did the sympathy in her kind voice lessen…. Most remarkable of all, she did not give way to a very natural curiosity. She asked no question.

After a time Ruth grew quieter, calmer.

"I'll tell you what you need," said Hilda. "It's to get away from here. My electric's downstairs. I'm going to take you away from father. We'll drive around a bit, and then I'll run you home…. You're all aquiver."

She went out, closing the door after her. Her father was pacing uneasily up and down the alley between the desks, and she motioned to him.

"She's better now. I'm going to take her home…. Dad, she was muttering about Bonbright. What's he got to do with this?"

"I don't know, honey. Nothing—nothing ROTTEN…. It isn't in him—nor
HER."

Hilda nodded.

"Bonbright seems to have disappeared," her father said.

"DISAPPEARED?"

"His father's hunting for him, anyhow. Hasn't been home all night."

"I don't blame him," said Hilda, with a flash in her eyes. "But what's this girl got to do with it?"

"I wish you'd find out. I was trying to—and that blew up the house."

"I'll try nothing of the kind," she said. "Of course, if she WANTS to tell me, and DOES tell me, I'll listen…. But I won't tell you. You run your old factory and keep out of such things. You just MESS them."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, with mock submissiveness, "it looks like I do just that."

Hilda went back into the room, and presently she and Ruth emerged and went out of the building. That day began their acquaintance, which was to expand into a friendship very precious to both of them—and one day to be the rod and staff that sustained Ruth and kept her from despair.