Macochee’s common interest in Marley was sharpened by his leaving town, and out of the curiosity that raged, Lawrence and Mayme Carter one evening made a call on Lavinia.

“Well, Lavinia,” said Lawrence, almost as soon as they were seated in the parlor, “what’s the news about Glenn? How’s he getting along?”

“Oh, pretty well,” she said, smiling.

“Does he like Chicago?”

“Oh, yes; that is, fairly well.”

“Run get his letters and let us read them.”

“Why, Jack! The idea!” Mayme rebuked him.

But Lavinia instantly got up.

“Well, I’ll read you part of one or two,” she said. “He can tell you much better than I all about himself.”

She was gone from the room a moment and then returned with two thick envelopes.

“My, Lavinia, you don’t intend to read all that, do you?” Lawrence made a burlesque of looking at his watch.

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid,” said Lavinia, smiling. She opened a letter.

“Here’s one that came several days ago. He mentions you both in this one.”

“You don’t mean to say he connects our names?” Lawrence affected consternation.

“Can’t you be serious a moment?” Mayme said, “I want to hear what he says; do go on, Lavinia, and don’t mind Jack.”

Lavinia read the extract from the diary and Marley’s comment.

“Doesn’t he say anything about you?” said Lawrence. “Why don’t you read that? You skip the most interesting parts. You’d better let me read them. Here—” and he held out his hand for the letter.

But Lavinia laid one letter securely in her lap and opened the other.

“Listen to this,” she began, and then she glanced over the first page and half-way down the second.

“Here you’re skipping again,” cried Lawrence. “Why don’t you play fair?”

“‘I have made a friend,’ he says,” she began, “‘and it all came about through the strike. You know the freight handlers went out on the first of May, and since then there has been more excitement than work in the office. The freight house is stacked high with freight, and only a few men are working there and they are afraid of their lives. All around the outside of the big, long shed are policemen and detectives, and the strikers’ pickets. All day they walk up and down, up and down, at a safe distance, just off the company’s ground, and they waylay everybody and try to get them not to go to work here. I happened to see the strike when it began. It was day before yesterday morning. I had gone out in the freight house on some little errand and just at ten o’clock I noticed a man walk down by the platform that runs along outside the shed. I saw him stop by one of the big doors and look in. Suddenly he gave a low whistle, then another. The men in the freight house stopped and looked up. Then the man outside raised his arm, and held up two fingers—’”

“He wanted them to go swimming probably,” interrupted Lawrence.

“Oh, Jack, do stop,” said Mayme, irritably. “Right at the most interesting part, too! Do go on, Lavinia.”

Lavinia read on:

“‘Then the man outside raised his arm, and held up two fingers, and instantly every truck in the shed dropped to the floor, bang, the men all went and put on their coats, marched out of the freight house—and the strike was on. Well, after that came the policemen and the detectives and the pickets, to say nothing of the reporters. It is about these last that I mean to tell you, for among them I have found this new friend. The other day a young man came into the office to see Clark, our boss. I was attracted by him at once. He was tall, and his smooth-shaven face was refined and thoughtful; I call him good-looking; his eyes were dark and his nose straight and full of character; his lips were thin and level; his hair was not quite black and stopped just on the right side of being curly. He was dressed modestly, but stylishly; I remember he wore gloves—he always does—and I thought him somewhat dudish. But what was my pleasure to see on his waistcoat the little white cross of my fraternity! I rushed up to him instantly, and gave him the grip. He was a Sig., from an Indiana college, and he is a reporter on the Courier. His name is James Weston; no, he is no relation to Bob Weston of Macochee at all. I asked him that the first thing; but he is some relation to the Cliffords, distant, I suppose.’”

“I wonder if that isn’t the young man who visited them summer before last?” asked Mayme. “I’ll bet it is!”

“No, it can’t be,” said Lavinia, “I thought of that the very first thing, but you see he says,” and Lavinia read on:

“‘He says he hasn’t been there for years. We chatted together for a few minutes and were friends at once. To-morrow night, if I can get off in time, I’m to dine with him at a cafÉ down-town. My, but it was good to see some one wearing that little white cross! You see my college training has done me some good after all.’”

In their conversation afterward, Lavinia and Mayme celebrated Marley’s abilities as a writer, but Lawrence begged Lavinia to read them more, particularly, as he assured her, those parts about herself, saying he could judge better of Marley’s abilities after he heard how he treated romantic subjects.

“I want to know how he handles the love interest,” he said.

“Oh, you got that from George Halliday,” said Mayme. “It sounds just like him when he’s discussing some book none of us has read, doesn’t it, Lavinia?”

Lavinia admitted that it did sound like Halliday, and Mayme returned to her attack on Lawrence by saying:

“What do you know about writing, anyway?”

They might have gone farther along this line had not Mrs. Blair entered with a plate of cake and some ice-cream that had been left over from their dessert at supper. These refreshments instantly seemed to affect Mayme with the idea that the call had assumed the formality of a social function, and as she nibbled at her cake, she asked with a polite interest:

“Just what is Mr. Marley’s position with the railroad, Lavinia?”

“Oh,” Lavinia answered, “he has a place in the office of the freight department; he’s a clerk there.”

“I’m so glad to know,” said Mayme, as if in relief.

“Why?” Lavinia looked up in alarm.

“Oh, well, you know—how people talk.” Mayme raised her pale eyebrows significantly. Lavinia was disturbed, but Lawrence, detecting the danger, instantly turned it off in a joke.

“She heard he was a section hand,” he said.

“The idea!” laughed Lavinia.

“Isn’t this just the worst place for gossip you ever heard of?” said Mayme.

“The worst ever,” said Lawrence. “If I were you I’d quit and start a reform movement.”

When they had gone and were strolling toward the Carters’, Lawrence grumbled at Mayme:

“What did you want to give it all away to Lavinia for?”

“Why, Jack, I didn’t say anything, did I?”

“Oh, no, nothing—only you tipped off the whole thing to her.”

“Why, what did I say that hinted at it, even?”

“‘Oh, you know how people talk!’” Lawrence mimicked her tone as he repeated her words.

“Well, you know they do, Jack, and you know all the mean things they’ve been saying about Glenn. And you remember Charlie Davis’ mother told mama that Charlie ran across him in the street: in Chicago and that—”

“Oh, Charlie Davis!” said Lawrence, as impatiently as he could say anything. “What’s he? Anyway, you didn’t have to tell Lavinia.”

“Well, I’m glad we got the truth anyway.”

“Yes, so am I.”

“We must tell everybody.”

“Sure,” acquiesced Lawrence, “if we can get the gossips started the other way they’ll have him president of the road in a few days.”