It was not until the hurrying Bansemer entered the door of Rector's that the apprehension of having committed a senseless blunder came to him.

"Good heavens!" he muttered, stopping short. "What a fool I'm getting to be-meeting old Elias, in a place like this! The theatre crowds—everybody in town will be here by eleven! Curse me, for a hopeless ass! I must get him away at once!"

Grumbling at himself, he passed into the restaurant. Gabe offered him the choice of various tables; he selected one which commanded a view of the entrances and ordered a perfunctory "Scotch." Nervous and anxious, he was more troubled than he cared to admit even to himself. Fortunately, there were not many people in the cafe; and his gaze, wandering about the place, soon halted before the small alcove in the east end containing a table with wine glasses, in waiting, set for a large party. The clock, back of the cigarstand, said it was five minutes after eleven. Bansemer impatiently watched the two doors leading to the street, and was beginning to wonder whether the message had reached the old clerk, when presently, the uncouth shape of Droom, appeared slinking through the so-called ladies' entrance, with the shrinking attitude of one unaccustomed to fashionable restaurants and doubtful of his reception. Bansemer motioned to him.

"Just as soon as I can get my check," he was saying, at the same time, beckoning to a waiter; "we'll move out of this. It will be crowded in—I never thought, a stall at Chapin & Gore's will be better. Here, waiter! My check! I'm in a hurry!—the devil!"

As the exclamation burst from his lips, there came down the narrow steps and through a door quickly thrown open by a waiter, a number of gay, fashionably dressed people, all smiling and trembling with the cold. Immediately, this party attracted the attention of the room. Waiters rushed hither and thither relieving the ladies of their costly lace and fur wraps, and the men of their heavy overcoats. Of the expected theatre-comers, these were the first to arrive; but presently others followed, and soon the quiet cafe of the early evening became transformed into one of bustle and excitement by the eager, animated throng. With dismay Bansemer noticed that those to whom his attention had been attracted were blocking his way to the doors; escape was out of the question. Reluctantly, he returned to his seat and ordered the clerk to take the one opposite him. Then, scanning the party making its passage to the alcove, he perceived three or four men whom he knew, and presently, to his surprise and consternation-his son. The recognition was mutual, Graydon making his way around a small table in order to affectionately greet him. As he approached, his eyes fastened themselves on his father's companion. With amazement, he recognised the queer figure of the lanky, gangling Droom; but too kind-hearted and well-bred to allow his features in the slightest degree to express the astonishment which he felt at sight of such a comic incongruity, the young man voiced a few kindly words to the old man, while from the table in the alcove, where the smart, little supper party were seating themselves, Miss Cable was smiling her cheery recognition to her prospective father-in-law; then Graydon made his way back to his seat by her side.

"Why did you come here?" asked Droom, feeling somewhat akin to the proverbial fish out of water.

"Because I thought—I thought you couldn't find any other place," replied Bansemer, confusedly.

The unexpected arrival of his son and party had disturbed his usual coolness; but with his order for supper his equilibrium returned, and he went on to explain:

"I supposed you knew only two streets in town—Wells and South Water."

"Humph! I know every street in town," Droom resented, drawing himself up in his chair; and then bluntly: "What's happened?"

"Not so loud! Harbert's here, but—-"

"Oho! Here?"

"In Chicago, yes—we'll talk about it later."

The present genial environment and convivial atmosphere were producing a most inspiriting effect on the lawyer. The delightful consciousness that the people with whom his son was supping were of the smartest set in town for the moment had banished all fears of exposure. From time to time he glanced proudly across to the alcove table where the men were engaged in unfolding their napkins and toying with their glasses, in lively anticipation of the enjoyment to come; while the women, with the hope of eliciting admiration for their hands and the sparkle of their rings, were taking off their gloves and spreading out their fingers on the table cloth.

"Graydon seems to be right in the swim, eh, Droom?" he said. The irony of it all appealed strongly to his sense of humour. "I don't suppose you know those swells?" he added, patronisingly. Droom was listening intently to the bursts of merriment which were enlivening the restaurant. Like a small boy at a circus who fears that something will happen that he will not see, he was continually turning his head and letting his eyes travel critically over the company at the neighbouring table.

At this speech of Bansemer's the eyes of the old clerk returned; they expressed no little resentment at the inference.

"Certainly, I do;" and leaning over the table and covertly indicating with his long, bony finger the man at the head of the table, he answered succinctly: "That's Fernmore—he's—"

A particularly loud burst of laughter cut him short. At the adjoining tables conversation had abruptly ceased; heads were turned and inquisitive eyes were fastened on the brilliant coterie at the alcove table.

Few men in Chicago were better known or better liked than the stout, florid complexioned, jovial-looking Billy Fernmore, the host of this entertainment. His social adventures and the headlong follies in which his fun-loving proclivities invariably enmeshed him were only surpassed by his fondness for ridding himself of his unlimited wealth.

To his inherited five millions marriage had added the colossal fortune of a beautiful heiress, whose extravagances aggregated less than his own solely through the limitations of her sex. Yet, were it not for the self-imposed handicap of adhering strictly to the somewhat old-fashioned precept that jewels should be acquired only through affectionate beneficence, Mrs. Fernmore might have succeeded in surpassing the princely prodigalities of her lord and master.

"It was this way," Billy was saying, in his own inimitable manner, and awake to the realisation of having a "good one" to tell; "a few days ago the lady of my house took wings for New York—a little spree of her own, you understand. And, for Billy Fernmore, I kept out of mischief, for a time, fairly well. After waiting days, lamb-like, for her return, restlessness—;" and here Fernmore's shameless affectation of the neglected husband became so irresistibly funny that it provoked prolonged laughter from his listeners, even Droom showing his yellow snags and stretching his mouth to the fullest extent of the law, as he joined in the general chorus; "restlessness gave way to recklessness, and in desperation I invited a half dozen of the oldest and most distinguished widowers in town to dine with me, at the hotel, where they were informed they were to be honoured by the presence of a bevy of the season's prettiest debutantes. My stars, but they were a fine collection of old innocents!" Fernmore threw himself back in his chair and roared at the recollection.

"Billy's a wonder when he's wound up!" Medford's whispered aside to the lady on his right met with a simple nod of the head; for despite Miss Clegg's well-feigned interest in Mr. Medford when Rigby was present, on other occasions there was no pretence of enjoyment of his society.

"Among those present—to use the correct phrase," said Billy, after having refreshed himself with sufficient champagne to proceed; "were two retired merchants, a venerable logician, a doddering banker, and a half-blind college professor. Of course, I had to make some excuse for Mrs. Fermnore's absence. For the life of me I cannot now remember what yarn I told them; but they were too anxious to be presented to the gay, young women not to swallow it—whole. The old boys fairly swamped the girls with their senile attentions. It was a lively supper party—my word! And they went home unanimously declaring that the debutantes of the present day discounted, at least in dash and go, the charmers of fifty years ago."

Amidst the confusion of peals of merriment which greeted the genial raconteur, Miss Cable, to whom the story did not especially appeal, whispered in awed tones:

"Graydon, who on earth is that queer, spectacular looking man with your father?"

"Oh, that's Droom—isn't he a character? He's been with the governor since I was a child. In those days his looks used to frighten me almost to death. I fancy he's had a sad life, don't you know."

"There is something positively awful in his face," returned the girl, as her eyes faltered and dropped to her plate on unexpectedly meeting those of the subject of her remark.

"Sh-h!" came from Medford; and then: "Come, Billy—what's the point—or the moral, as they say in novels?"

"Fernmore is a rattling good chap, at heart," Graydon was saying to Jane; "but I can't stand that Med—"

"Yes, yes, go on, Mr. Fernmore," broke in several voices in eager expectancy.

"The moral?" Billy's eyes were twinkling. "The joke, rather, is on me. When Mrs. Fernmore reached home I thought it wise to say nothing about the affair; but I had completely underestimated the persistency of these rejuvenated venerables. They were not satisfied—wanted to know more about the girls; and the next day in deep but joyous simplicity, half a dozen old men asked their married daughters and close friends at the clubs what family of Brown a certain debutante belonged to; who was the father of Miss Jones; and how long had the family of Miss Robinson lived in the city, together with a lot of amazing questions. And failing to derive even the remotest satisfaction from the Social Register, the women members of their families besieged my innocent wife with more or less shocked inquiries as to an entertainment of mine at which their aged relations were present. Well, the game was up! I owned up—confessed to the girls being actresses and begged for mercy."

"And I forgave him," supplemented Mrs. Fernmore, smilingly. "Boys will be boys."

"Whew!" whistled Billy, in conclusion. "It was no end of a lark! I would not have missed it for the world; but the old chaps will never, never forgive me."

As the gentleman finished, Bansemer was looking at Droom with amusement. The old clerk was shaking his head in a manner that signified disapproval.

"How's that for doings in swagger society, eh, Droom? If anyone but Billy Fernmore had done that, he would have been ostracised forever. Nothing like millions—"

"I don't believe true aristocrats would do that," interrupted Droom, half angrily.

"These are the aristocrats—money aristocrats; the others have lost the name—forgotten. Come, let's go over yonder—we can talk there."

Bansemer called for the bill and settled it; then slowly rising, ostentatiously waved his adieus to the alcove and deserted the scene for Chapin & Gore's Droom meekly followed him employer.

For some time, neither spoke. In their stall, each was busy with his own thoughts and speculations.

"I think I've made a mess of it with Mr. Cable," began Banseemer. "She—-"

"I wouldn't mention names," cautioned Droom, with a look at the top of the partition.

"She's very likely to fight back, after all."

"What was your demand?"

"Money," said Bansemer, quietly.

"Humph!" was Broom's way of saying he lied.

"Harbert has a purpose in coming here, Elias. We must prepare for him."

"We are as well prepared as we can expect to be. I guess it means that we'll have to get out of Chicago."

"Curse him!" snarled Bansemer. "I don't care a rap about myself; but it will be all up with Graydon if anything—er—unpleasant should happen to me," said Bansemer, with a wistful glance at his glass. Then, in subdued tones, he told of the meeting with Harbert. Droom agreed that the situation looked unpleasant, and all the more so in view of what Eddie Deever had mentioned in connection with the Marshal's office. He repeated the story as it had come from the babbling, youngster's lips, utterly deceived by the guileless emissary from the office downstairs.

"What do you expect to do?" he asked, studying the tense face of his employer.

"I'm going to stand my ground," said Bansemer, steadily drumming on the table with his stiff fingers. "They can't prove anything, and the man who makes a charge against me will have to substantiate it. I'll not run a step."

"Then," said Droom, coarsely, "you must let Mrs. Cable alone. She is your danger signal. I tell you, Mr. Bansemer, she'll fight if you drive her into a corner. She's not a true aristocrat. She comes of a class that doesn't give up."

"Bah! She's like the rest. If Harbert doesn't get in his nasty work, she'll give in like all the others."

"I thought you said you'd do nothing to mar the happiness of Graydon," sneered Droom.

"I don't intend to, you old fool. This affair is between Mrs. Cable and me. If she wins, I'll give up. But, understand me, I'm perfectly capable of knowing just when I'm beaten."

"I only know your financial valour," said Elias drily.

"That's all you're expected to know, sir."

"Then, we won't quarrel about it," said the other with his sweetest grin.

"Umph! Well, pleasantries aside, we must look ourselves over carefully before we see our New York friend. He must not find us with unclean linen. Elias, I'm worried, I'll confess, but I'm not afraid. Is there anything that we have bungled?"

"I have always been afraid of the chorus-girl business. I don't like chorus girls." Bansemer, at another time, would have smiled.

It was past midnight when the two left the stall and started in separate ways for their North Side homes. The master felt more secure than when he left the home of David Cable earlier in the night. Elias Droom said at parting:

"I don't like your attitude toward Mrs. C. It's not very manly to make war on a woman."

"My good Elias," said Bansemer, complacently surveying himself in the small mirror across the stall, "all men make war on women, one way or another."

He did not see Droom's ugly scowl as he preceded that worthy through the doorway.

The next morning Bansemer walked down the Drive. It was a bright, crisp day and the snow had been swept from the sidewalks. He felt that a visit from Harbert during the day was not unlikely and he wanted to be fresh and clear-headed. Halfway down he met Jane Cable coming from the home of a friend. He never had seen her looking so beautiful, so full of the joy of living. Her friendly, sparkling smile sent a momentary pang of shame into his calloused heart, but it passed with the buoyant justification of his decision to do nothing in the end that might mar his son's happiness.

She was walking to town and assured him that she rejoiced in his distinguished company. They discussed the play and the supper party.

"Now that I'm engaged to Graydon, I'm positively beginning to grow sick of people," Miss Cable declared and as they all declare at that age and stage.

"Well, you'll soon recover," he smiled. "Marriage is the convalescence of a love affair, you know."

"Oh, but most of the men one meets are so hopelessly silly-tiresome," she went on. "It's strange, too. Nearly all of them have gone to college-Yale, or Harvard."

"My dear Jane, they are the unfortunate sons of the rich. You can't blame them. All Yale and Harvard men are not tiresome. You should not forget that a large sprinkling of the young men you meet at the pink teas were sent to Yale or Harvard for the sole purpose of becoming Yale and Harvard men-nothing more. Their mothers never expected them to be anything else. The poor man sends his son to be educated; the rich man usually does it to get the boy away from home, so that he won't have to look at him all the time. I'm happy to say that I was quite poor when Graydon got his diploma."

"Oh, Graydon isn't at all like the others. He is a man," cried Jane, her eyes dancing.

"I don't mean to say that all rich men's sons are failures. Some of them are really worth while. Give credit unlimited to the rich man's son who goes to college and succeeds in life in spite of his environment. I must not forget that Graydon's chief ambition at one time was to hunt Indians."

"He couldn't have got that from his mother," said she accusingly. Bansemer looked at her sharply. He had half expected, on meeting her, to observe the first sign that the Cable family had discussed him well but not favourably. Her very brightness convinced him that she, at least, had not been, taken into the consultation.

"I am afraid it came from his horrid father. But Graydon is a good boy. He couldn't long follow the impulses of his father. I dare say he could be a sinner if he tried, too. I' hate an imbecile. An imbecile to my mind is the fellow without the capacity to err intentionally. God takes care of the fellow who errs ignorantly. Give me the fellow who is bright enough to do the bad things which might admit him to purgatory in good standing, and I'll trust him to do the good things that will let him into heaven. I often wonder where these chaps go after they die—I mean the Yale and Harvard chaps who bore you. It takes a clever chap to have any standing at all in purgatory. Where do they go, Jane? You are wise for your years and sex. There surely must be a place for the plain asses?"

"Oh," said she, "I suppose they have a separate heaven, just as the dogs have."

"No doubt you're right," he agreed, smiling, "but think how bright the dogs are as a rule."

"Bobby Rigby says a dog is worth more than his master. People will steal a dog, he says."

"I saw him at your house last night. Did you meet Mr. Harbert?"

"No. Mother said he came in with Bobby."

"How is Mrs. Cable this morning? I think she—er—complained of a sick headache last night?"

"She has such a frightful headache that she couldn't get up this morning."

"Indeed? Will you carry my respects and sympathy to her?"

"Thank you, yes. But why don't you come in and see us, Mr. Bansemer?"

"In a day or so, gladly."

Bansemer was not approached by Harbert that day nor the next—nor any other day soon, in fact. It was not until after the third day had expired that he heard from Mrs. Cable. Her silence was gratifying and significant; it meant that she was struggling with herself—that she had taken no one as yet into her confidence. He was too wary to feel secure in his position, however. He abandoned every case that could not be tried in the cleanest light and he destroyed his footprints in those of the past more completely than ever. David Cable was disposed to be agreeable when they met, and Rigby's manner had lost the touch of aloofness. Altogether the situation did not look so dark as it had on the night of the blizzard.

He guessed at Mrs. Cable's frame of mind during the three days just past by the tenor of her message over the telephone. She did no more than to ask him to drop in before five for a cup of tea; but he saw beyond the depth of her invitation.

He went and had a few minutes alone with her because he was shrewd enough to drop in before five. No one else came until after that hour had struck. He was studiously reserved and considerate. There was nothing in his manner to indicate that he was there as anything more than the most casual sipper of the beverage that society brews. It was left for her to make the advances.

"We must come to an understanding," she said abruptly. "I cannot endure the suspense, the uncertainty—"

Bansemer raised his brows with grave condescension.

"Then you have not confessed to Mr. Cable?" he asked, with perfect unconcern. "Do you know, I was rather hoping that you would have saved me the trouble of doing so."

"It means so much to—"

"Ah, I see you find it hard to lose the ground you have gained socially." He stirred his tea steadily.

"It isn't that—I don't care for that. It's for Jane and David. I can only offer to buy your silence; nothing more," she said with hurried words. "I own shares in the railroad; they're worth twenty thousand dollars. Will you take them?"

"My dear," he said, leaning quite close to her, "I am not seeking to blackmail you as you seem to imagine. I have only tried to tell you that I love you."

"Oh," she exclaimed, with a shudder of disgust. His face was quite close to hers; she could feel his warm breath on her cheek and she drew away quickly. His hand hovered close to hers as it lay in her lap.

There was an eye-witness to this single picture in the brief scene. Jane had started downstairs. From the upper steps she could look into the drawing-room below. She could not help seeing Bansemer's fervent attitude; she heard nothing that he said. The girl paused in surprise; a feeling as of dread—she could not explain—crept over her. A chill struck into her heart.

It was as if she had awakened from a sweet sleep to look out upon a bleak, horrid morning.

Involuntarily she shrank back, quite beyond the actual vision but not free from it. She stood straight and tense and silent at the top of the stairs, her hand clasping the rail. She could hear her heart throbs plainly. There was no mistaking the picture as it had burst upon her unsuspecting eyes. With a quavering smile she tried to throw it from her. But cold and damning there arose to support her apprehensions the horrid stories of Mrs. Blanckton and her affair with Rellick. With her own eyes she had seen Rellick talking to Mrs. Blanckton just as Bansemer was talking to her mother in the dim doom below. The Blanckton scandal, as everyone knew, was one of the most infamous the city had known. Jane, with other girls, had been shocked by the boldness of the intrigue; she had loathed Rellick for his unprincipled love-making; she had despised and denounced Mrs. Blanckton. Here now was her own mother listening just as Mrs. Blanckton had listened; here was James Bansemer talking just as Rellick had talked. A great fear, a dark uncertainty, welled up in her heart.

It was not until the butler admitted other callers that she found the courage to turn her eyes toward the drawing-room. She was never to forget the dread that grew with the thought of what she might have seen had she remained a voluntary witness during the minutes which followed her first look below. That single vision effected a sharp, complete change in Jane Cable's life. From that moment she never saw the world as it had appeared to her before.

Although she succeeded in, hiding the fact, it was difficult to approach and greet James Bansemer with the naturalness of the unsuspecting. His manner was beyond reproach, and yet, for the first time, she saw the real light in his black eyes. She talked to him as if nothing had happened to make her distrustful, but no self-control in the world could have checked the growth of that remorseless thing called suspicion. For her own sake, for her mother's, for Graydon's, she tried to put it down. Instead, it grew greater and stronger as she looked into his eyes, for in them she saw the light that heretofore had escaped her notice.

And this was the father of the man whom she was to marry, the one whom she loved with all her heart and soul! This, the man who would degrade her own mother! Her mother—she looked at her with a new question in her eyes. She looked for the thing which had marked Mrs. Blanckton. It was not there, and she rejoiced in that discovery. Her mother did not possess the bold, daring, defiant air of the other woman. Hers was tender, sweet, even subdued; the girl clutched hopefully at this sign and began to build upon it.

Half a dozen people came and went. James Bansemer was the last to leave. He met the girl's tense, inquiring look from time to time, but he could not have felt its meaning. There was nothing in her voice which might have warned him, although it sounded strained and without warmth on her own ears. In spite of herself she wondered how he would act in saying good-bye to her mother. Although she tried with all the might of her will to look away, she could not take her eyes from the pair as Bansemer arose to depart.

His manner was most circumspect. The handclasp was brief, even formal and there was no look in his eyes to indicate the presence of anything but the most casual emotions. After his departure, Mrs. Cable turned to Jane and complained of a frightful headache and went to her room to lie down for a while before dinner. Jane's gaze followed her steadily as she ascended the stairs. Then she walked to the window and looked out upon the street, a hundred perplexities in her mind.

Her father was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, looking down the darkening street. His cab was turning the corner below, showing that he had been standing there for longer than a minute. She watched him with interest. What had happened in the street to hold his interest so closely? It was Jane who opened the door and let him in. As she kissed his cold cheek she noticed the frown on his brow and caught the strange gleam in his eyes. His greeting was less warm than usual, and he went to his room upstairs without removing his hat or coat below. But not before he sent a quick, keen glance about the drawing-room to find if James Bansemer had been the single visitor of the afternoon.

"Where is your mother?" he asked from the stairs, without looking back.

"She has just gone to her room," Jane replied, a chill shooting through her veins. Some strange, unnatural impulse compelled her to add, as if the explanation were just and necessary: "We have had a lot of people in drinking tea, and mother has a headache."

She watched him ascend the steps and turn into his smoking-room. The door closed sharply and a wave of inexplicable relief rushed over her. Her hands were cold. She went to the fireplace and held them out to the blaze. Her ears were alert for sounds from above—alert with a strange fear which choked her with its persistence. She dreaded the opening of her father's door and his footsteps as they crossed to her mother's room. She waited for these sounds, minute after minute, but they did not come. The fire would not give warmth to her hands; the chill seemed to spread. In her new consciousness she felt that a tragedy was just begun.