Four days after he had read in the newspapers the account of Doris's wedding to Boskirk, about seven o'clock in the evening, while he was waiting for Roscoe to call for him to go out to dinner, Sweeney, the j.a.p, brought him a card.

It was from Patsie, hastily scribbled across, "I am outside. Can you come and see me?"

"Where is she? Outside?" he said all in a flutter. Sweeney informed him that she was waiting in an automobile.

He guessed that something serious must have happened and hurried down.

Patsie's face was at the window, watching impatiently. When she saw him she relaxed momentarily with a sigh of relief.

"Why, Patsie, what's wrong?" he said instantly, taking her hand.

"You can come? It's important."

"Of course."

He jumped in and the car made off.

"Tell him to drive through the Park."

He transmitted the order. And then turned to look at her.

"I am so worried!" she said at once, gazing into his eyes, with eyes that held an indefinable fear.

He had not relinquished her hand since he had seated himself. He pressed it strongly, fighting back the desire to take her in his arms, that came to him with the spectacle of her misery. There flashed through his mind the details of his final parting with Doris and her ominous declaration of the ruin impending over her father. He had only half believed it then but now it flashed across his memory with instant conviction.

"Your father is in trouble--financial trouble!" he said suddenly.

"How do you know?" she said amazed.

"Doris told me."

"Doris? When?" she said. She stiffened at the name, though he did not notice the action.

"The last time I saw her--why, Drina, didn't you know? Why she came down, why she saw me and asked to be released--didn't you know her reason?"

"I know nothing. Do you mean to say that she--" she paused as though overwhelmed at the thought, "that then she knew Dad was facing ruin?"

"Knew? Why, your father told her!-- Doris and your mother! You didn't know?"

"No."

"You weren't told afterward?"

"No, no--not a word."

Rapidly he recounted the details of the scene, failing in his excitement to notice how divided was her interest, between the knowledge of what was threatening her father, and what bore upon the situation between Doris and himself.

"Then it was Doris who broke it!" she said suddenly and a shudder went through her body.

He checked himself, saw clear and answered impetuously.

"Yes, she did--that's true. But let me tell the truth also. I never would have married her--never--never! I never in all my life felt such relief--yes, such absolute happiness as that night when I walked away free. I did not love her. I had not for a long, long time. I pitied her.

I believed that through her love for me a great change was coming in her--for the best. And so it had. I pitied her. I was afraid of doing harm. That was all. She knew it, Drina. You can't believe I cared--you must have known!"

"And yet--yet," she began, hesitatingly, and stopped.

"Don't hold anything back," he said impulsively. "We mustn't let anything stand between us. Say anything you want. Better that."

"What I couldn't understand," she said at last, with an effort, in which her hurt pride was evident--"that afternoon--when you gave back the money to Dad--after what you said to me-- Oh! how can I say it."

"You thought that I was going to tell the truth to Doris and break the engagement. That was it, wasn't it?"

"Yes," she said, covering her face, in terror that she could have said such a thing, and yet her whole being hanging on his answer--"I couldn't understand--afterwards."

"I came out of the library to make an end of everything and before I knew it, it was Doris who had changed everything. She had listened. She had heard all. She imagined she was in love for the first time. She begged me not to turn from her, to give her another chance. I was caught, what was I to do?"

"She loves you," she said breathlessly.

"She only imagines it. She only plays with that idea."

"No, no! she loves you," she said in a tone of great suffering.

"But, Drina," he said, aghast at her inconsistency, "it was you who came to me--who begged me to marry Doris--how can you forget that?"

She burst into tears.

"What! You are jealous!--jealous of her!" he cried with a great hope in his voice, his hand going out to her.

She stiffened suddenly and drew back, frightened into her corner.

"No, I'm not jealous," she said furiously. "Only hurt--terribly hurt."

This sudden change left him bewildered. He felt it unjustified, inconsistent and a reproach was on his lips.

In the end he quieted himself and said, forcing himself to speak like a stranger:

"This, I suppose, is not what you wanted to say to me?"

Instantly her alarm overcame her defiant att.i.tude.

"No, no. I am terribly worried. I want your help, oh! so much."

She extended her hand timidly as though in apology, but still offended, he withdrew his, saying:

"Anything I can do and you need not fear that I'll take advantage of it!"

"Oh!" she shrank back and then in a moment said, "Bojo, forgive me-- I am very cruel-- I know it. Will you forgive me?"

"I forgive you," he said at last, trembling at the sweetness of her voice, resolved whatever the temptation, to show her that he could control himself.