"What's the matter?"

Bennington did not answer, but settled down to his task, reading carefully and slowly. He did not look for any signature, for he knew there would be none. He returned the letter, his face sober, but his eyes dancing.

"Now, what the deuce do you see that is so amusing?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Don't tell me there isn't any romance in the world. But, hang it, Jack, I'm not worth a letter like that," earnestly.

"Of course not."

"I'm not jesting. I've sown wild oats, and G.o.d knows what the harvest will be. There's a law that exacts payment. Retribution is the only certain thing in this world."

"Oh, you're no worse than the average man. But the average man is jolly bad," Bennington added gravely. "But you, d.i.c.k; I'm not worrying about you. Perhaps the writer of that letter sees good in you that you can't see yourself; good that is in you but of which you are unconscious. One thing, you have never besmirched the talents G.o.d gave you. Everything you have done has been clean and wholesome--like yourself."

"I wish I could believe that! But I've had no ties, Jack, none. You can't keep to a course without a compa.s.s. The real good in life, the good that makes life worth while, is the toil for those you love. I love n.o.body, not even myself. But this girl rather woke me up. I began to look inward, as they say. So far I've not discovered much good. I'd give a good deal to meet this writer."

"Doubtless you will find her charming."

Suddenly Warrington turned upon his friend. "But what I want to know is, what brought you around here this time o' night? I never knew you to do anything without a definite purpose."

"That's precisely what I've been waiting for you to lead up to. The truth is--" Bennington hesitated. His hand, idly trailing over the desk, came into contact with something smooth and soft. It was a pair of white kid gloves, a woman's. Absently he drew them through his hand. He was only half conscious of his action, and he did not observe Warrington's sudden agitation. "The truth is, I've gone and done it.

I'm going to be married in June, and I want you to be my best man."

Warrington's hand went out impulsively.

"Oh, I felt it in my bones when your card came in," he said, rearranging the gla.s.ses. "Lucky woman! Long life to you, Jack, and long happiness!"

"Thank you, d.i.c.k." (Ceremonial recurrence of drinking a health.)

"Now, out with it. Who is she, and all about her?"

"d.i.c.k, I'm genuinely sorry, but I'm still under bond of silence."

"More mysteries!" cried Warrington, with evident discontent.

"Only for a week, when, if you say, we'll have breakfast here in these very rooms.

"Done. Only I must say you're a bit hard on me to-night.

"I'm sorry."

"Let me see; I'll describe her for you. Beautiful."

"Yes."

"Accomplished."

"Very."

"A woman who will be both wife and comrade."

"Exactly."

"An American."

"In all things."

"You make me envious."

"Why don't you get married yourself?"

"Bah!" Warrington went to the window and looked down upon the street.

Bennington eyed his broad shoulders sympathetically. He looked down at the limp, smooth skins in his hand, and sat up stiffly. From the gloves to Warrington and back again to the gloves, his gaze traveled.

With an impulse rather mechanical he raised the gloves to his nose.

Quickly he dropped them on the desk, took up the photograph, rose and replaced it on the mantel. Hearing him, Warrington turned.

"No, Jack, I doubt if I shall ever be lucky enough to find the one woman. I've been so busy that I've never had time to hunt for happiness. And those who hunt for it never find it, and those who wait for it can not see it standing at their side."

Bennington wandered about, from object to object. Here he picked up a dagger, there a turquoise in the matrix, and again some inlaid wood from Sorrento. From these his interest traveled to and lingered over some celebrated autographs.

"Happiness is a peculiar thing," went on the dramatist. "It is far less distinctive than fame or fortune. They sometimes knock at your door, but happiness steals in without warning, and often leaves as mysteriously as it comes."

Bennington paused to examine a jade cigarette case, which he opened and closed aimlessly. And there were queer little j.a.panese ash-trays that arrested his attention.

"Men like you and me, Jack, never marry unless we love. It is never a business transaction."

"It is love or nothing," said Bennington, turning his face toward Warrington. The smile he gave was kindly. "Yes, true happiness can be sought only in those we love. There is happiness even in loving some one who does not love you." Bennington repressed a sigh. "But, d.i.c.k, you'll be the best man?"

"Depend upon me. What do you say to this day week for breakfast here?"

"That will be wholly agreeable to me."

Bennington's cigar had gone out. He leaned upon the desk and took his light from the chimney. Men who have traveled widely never waste matches.

"Can't you bunk here for the night? There's plenty of room," said Warrington.

"Impossible, d.i.c.k. I leave at midnight for home. I must be there to-morrow morning. I'm afraid of trouble in the shops. The unions are determined to push me to the limit of my patience."

"Why the deuce don't you get rid of the shops?"

"They're the handiwork of my father, and I'm proud to follow his steps." Bennington's eyes were no longer at peace; they sparkled with defiance. "Half-past ten!" suddenly. "I must be going. My luggage is still at the hotel. G.o.d bless you, d.i.c.k!"

Their hands met once again.

"You know, jack, that I love you best of all men."