"I think I have demonstrated the fact you mention," he replied calmly.

Florence Baker clasped her hands together. "Yes, your persistency is admirable," she said.

Ben Blair caught the word. "Persistency," he remarked, "seems the only recourse when past friendship and common courtesy are ignored."

Florence made no reply, and going forward Ben placed a chair deferentially. "It seems necessary for me to reverse the position of host and guest," he said. "Won't you be seated?"

The girl did not stir.

"I hardly think it necessary," she answered.

"Florence," Ben Blair's great chin lifted meaningly, "I will not be offended whatever you may do. I have something I wish to say to you. Please sit down."

The girl hesitated, and almost against her will looked the man fairly in the eyes, while her own blazed. Once more she felt his dominance controlling her, felt as she did when, in what seemed the very long ago, he had spread his blanket for her upon the prairie earth.

She sat down.

Ben drew up another chair and sat facing her. "Why," he was leaning a bit forward, his elbow on his knee, "why, Florence Baker, have you done everything in your power to prevent my seeing you? What have I done of late, what have I ever done, to deserve this treatment from you?"

The girl evaded his eyes. "It is not usually considered necessary for a lady to give her reasons for not wishing to see a gentleman," she parried. The handkerchief in her lap was being rolled unconsciously into a tight little ball. "The fact itself is sufficient."

Ben's free hand closed on the chair-arm with a mighty grip. "I beg your pardon," he said, "but I cannot agree with you. There's a certain amount of courtesy due between a woman and a man, as there is between man and man. It is my right to repeat the question."

The girl felt the cord drawing tighter, felt that in the end she would bend to his will.

"And should I refuse?" she asked.

"You won't refuse."

The girl's eyes returned to his. Even now she wondered that they did so, that try as she might she could not deny him. His dominance over her was well-nigh absolute. Yet she was not angry. An instinct that she had felt before possessed her; the longing of the weaker for the stronger—the impulse to give him what he wished. Her whole womanhood went out to him, with an entire confidence that she would never give to another human being. Naturally, he was her mate; naturally,—but she was not natural. She hesitated as she had done once before, a multitude of conflicting desires and ambitions seething in her brain. If she could but eliminate the artificial in her nature, the desire for the empty things of the world, then—But she could not yet give them up, and he could never be made to care for them with her. She was nearer now to giving them up, to giving up everything for his sake, than when she had sat alone with him out on the prairie. She realized this with an added complexity of emotion; but even yet, even yet—

A minute passed in silence, a minute of which the girl was unconscious. It was Ben Blair's voice repeating his first question that recalled her. This time she did not hesitate.

"I think you know the reason as well as I do. If we were mere friends or acquaintances I would be only too glad to see you; but we are not, and never can be merely friends. We have got to be either more or less." The voice, brave so far, dropped. A mist came over the brown eyes. "And we can't be more," she added.

The man's grip on the chair-arm loosened. He bent his face farther forward. "Miss Baker," he exclaimed. "Florence!"

Interrupting, almost imploring, the girl drew back. "Don't! Please don't!" she pleaded; then, as she saw the futility of words, with the old girlish motion her face dropped into her hands. "Oh, I knew it would mean this if I saw you!" she wailed. "You see for yourself we cannot be mere friends!"

The man did not stir, but his eyes changed color and seemed to grow darker. "No," he said, "we cannot be mere friends; I care for you too much for that. And I cannot be silent when I came away off here to see you. I would never respect myself again if I were. You can do what you please, say what you please, and I'll not resent it—because it is you. I will love you as long as I live. I am not ashamed of this, because it is you I love, Florence Baker." He paused, looking tenderly at the girl's bowed head.

"Florence," he went on gently, "you don't know what you are to me, or what your having left me means. I often go over to your old ranch of a night and sit there alone, thinking of you, dreaming of you. Sometimes it is all so vivid that I almost feel that you are near, and before I know it I speak your name. Then I realize you are not there, and I feel so lonely that I wish I were dead. I think of to-morrow, and the next day, and the next—the thousands of days that I'll have to live through without you—and I wonder how I am going to do it."

The girl's face sank deeper into her hands. A muffled sob escaped her. "Please don't say any more!" she pleaded. "Please don't! I can't stand it!"

But the man only looked at her steadily.

"I must finish," he said. "I may never have a chance to say this to you again, and something compels me to tell you of myself, for you are my good angel. In many ways it is of necessity a rough life I lead, but you are always with me, and I am the better for it. I haven't drank a drop since I came to know that I loved you, and we ranchers are not accustomed to that, Florence. But I never will drink as long as I live; for I'll think of you, and I couldn't then if I would. Once you saved me from something worse than drink. There was a man who shot Mr. Rankin and before this, from almost the first thought I can remember, I had sworn that if I ever met him I would kill him. We did meet. I followed him day after day until at last I caught up with him, until he was down and my hands were upon his throat. But I didn't hurt him, Florence, after all; I thought of you just in time."

He was silent, and suddenly the place seemed as still as an empty church. The girl's sobs were almost hysterical. The man's mood changed; he reached over and touched her gently on the shoulder.

"Forgive me for hurting you, Florence," he said. "I—I couldn't help telling you."

Involuntarily the girlish figure straightened.

"Forgive you!" A tear-stained face was looking into his. "Forgive you! I'll never be able to forgive myself! You are a million times too good for me, Ben Blair. Forgive you! I ought never to cease asking you to forgive me!"

"Florence!" pleaded the man. "Florence!"

But the girl, in her turn, went on. "I have felt all the while that certain things I saw here were unreal, that they were not what they seemed. I have prevaricated to you deliberately. I haven't really been here long, but it seems to me now that it's been years. As you said I would, I've looked beneath the surface and seen the sham. At first I wouldn't believe what I saw; but at last I couldn't help believing it, and, oh, it hurt! I never expect to be so hurt again. I couldn't be. One can only feel that way once in one's life." The small form trembled with the memory, and the listener made a motion as if to stop her; but she held him away.

"It isn't that I'm any longer blind; I am acting now with my eyes wide open. It is something else that keeps me from you now, something that crept in while I was learning my lesson, something I can't tell you." Once more the girl could not control herself, and sobbing, trembling, she covered her face. "Ben, Ben," she wailed, "why did you ever let me come here? You could have kept me if you would—you can do—anything. I would have loved you—I did love you all the time; only, only—" She could say no more.

For a second the man did not understand; then like a flash came realization, and he was upon his feet pacing up and down the narrow room. To lose an object one cares for most is one thing; to have it filched by another is something very different. He was elemental, this man from the plains, and in some phases very illogical. The ways of the higher civilization, where man loves many times, where he dines and wines in good fellowship with him who is the husband of a former love—these were not his ways. White anger was in his heart, not against the woman, but against that other man. His fingers itched to be at his throat, regardless of custom or law. Temporarily, the rights and wishes of the woman, the prize of contention, were forgotten. Two young bucks in the forest do not consider the feelings of the doe that is the reward of the victor in the contest when they meet; and Ben Blair was very like these wild things. Only by an effort of the will could he keep from going immediately to find that other man,—intuition made it unnecessary to ask his name. As it was, he wanted now to be away. The tiny room seemed all at once stifling. He wanted to be out of doors where the sun shone, out where he could think. He seized his hat, then suddenly remembered, paused to glance—and that instant was his undoing, and another man's—Clarence Sidwell's—salvation.

And Florence Baker, at whom he had glanced? She was not tearful or hysterical now. Instead, she was looking at him out of wide-open eyes. Well she knew this man, and knew the volcano she had aroused.

"You won't hurt him, Ben!" she said. "You won't hurt him! For my sake, say you won't!"

The devil lurking in the cowboy's blue eyes vanished, but the great jaw was still set. He reached out and caught the girl by the shoulder. "Florence Baker," he said, "on your honor, is he worth it—is he worth the sacrifice you ask of me? Answer!"

But the girl did not answer, did not stir. "You won't hurt him!" she repeated. "Say you won't!"

A moment longer Ben Blair held her; then his hands dropped and he turned toward the vestibule.

"I don't know," he said. "I don't know."



CHAPTER XXII

TWO FRIENDS HAVE IT OUT

Clarence Sidwell was alone in his down-town bachelor quarters; that is, alone save for an individual the club-man's friends termed his "Man Friday," an undersized and very black negro named Alexander Hamilton Brown, but answering to the contraction "Alec." Valet, man of all work, steward, Alec was as much a fixture about the place as the floor or the ceiling; and, like them, his presence, save as a convenience, was ignored.

The rooms themselves were on the eleventh floor of a down-town office-building, as near the roof as it had been possible for him to secure suitable quarters. For eight years Sidwell had made them his home when he was in town. The circle of his friends had commented, his mother and sisters (his father had been long dead) had protested, when, a much younger man, he first severed himself from the semi-colonial mansion which for three generations had borne the name of Sidwell; but as usual, he had had his own way.

"I want to work when I feel so inclined, when the mood is on me, whether it's two o'clock of the afternoon or of the morning,'" he had explained; "and I can't do it without interruption here with you and your friends."

For the same reason he had chosen to live near the sky. There, high above the noise and confusion, he could observe and catch the influence of the activity which is in itself a powerful stimulant, without experiencing its unpleasantness. Essentially, the man was an aesthete. If he went to a race or a football game he wished to view it at a distance. To be close by, to mingle in the dust of action, to smell the sweat of conflict, to listen to the low-voiced imprecations of the defeated, detracted from his pleasure. He could not prevent these features—therefore he avoided them.

This particular evening he was doing nothing, which was very unusual for him. The necessity for society, or for activity, physical or mental, had long ago become as much a part of his nature as the desire for food. Dilettante musician as well as artist, when alone at this time of the evening he was generally at the upright piano in the corner. Even Alec noticed the unusual lack of occupation on this occasion, and exposed the key-board suggestively; but, observing the action, Sidwell only smiled.

"Think I ought to, Alec?" he queried.

The negro rolled his eyes. Despite his long service, he had never quite lost his awe of the man he attended.

"Sho, yo always do that, or something, sah," he said.

Sidwell smiled again; but it was not a pleasant smile. So this was the way of it! Even his servant had observed his habitual restlessness, and had doubtless commented upon it to his companions in the way servants have of passing judgment upon their employers. And if Alec had noticed this, then how much more probable it was that others of Sidwell's numerous acquaintances had noticed it also! He winced at the thought. That this was his skeleton, and that he had endeavored to keep it hidden, Sidwell did not attempt to deny to himself. One of the reasons he had not given to his family for establishing these down-town quarters was this very one. Time and again, when he had felt the mood of protest strong upon him, he had come here and locked the doors to fight it out alone. But after all, it had been useless. The fact had been obvious, despite the trick; mayhap even more so on account of it. Like the Wandering Jew he was doomed, followed by a relentless curse.

He shook himself, and walking over to the sideboard poured out a glass of Cognac and drank it as though it were wine. Sidwell did not often drink spirits. Experience had taught him that to begin usually meant to end with regret the following day; but to-night, with his present mood upon him, the action was as instinctive as breathing. He moved back to his chair by the window.

The evening was hot, on the street depressingly so, but up here after the sun was set there was always a breeze, and it was cool and comfortable. The man looked out over the sooty, gravelled roofs of the surrounding lower buildings, and down on the street, congested with its flowing stream of cars, equipages, and pedestrians. Times without number he had viewed the currents and counter-currents of that scene, but never before had he so caught its vital spirit and meaning. Born of the elect,—reared and educated among them,—the supercilious superiority of his class was as much a part of him as his name. While he realized that physically the high and the low were constructed on practically the same plan, he had been wont to consider them as on totally separate mental planes. That the clerk and the roustabout on ten dollars a week, breathing the same atmosphere,—seeing daily, hourly, minute by minute, from separate viewpoints, the same life,—that they should have in common the constant need of diversion had never before occurred to him. Multitudes of times, as a sociologist, or as a literary man in search of realism, he had visited the haunts of the under-man. Languidly, critically, as he would have observed at the "zoo" an animal with whose habits he was unacquainted, he had watched this rather curious under-man in his foolish, or worse than foolish, endeavor to find amusement or oblivion. He had often been interested, as by a clown at a circus; but more frequently the sight had merely inspired disgust, and he had returned to his own diversions, his own efforts to secure the same end, with an all but unconscious thankfulness that he was not such as that other. To-night, for the first time, and with a wonder we all feel when the obvious but long unseen suddenly becomes apparent, the primary fact of human brotherhood, irrespective of caste, came home to him. To-night and now he realized, diminutive in the distance as they were, that the swarm of figures that he had hitherto considered mere animals vain of display were impelled upon the street, compelled to keep moving, moving, without a pre-arranged destination, by the same spirit of unrest that had sent him to the buffet. At that moment he was probably nearer to his fellow-man than ever before in his life; but the truth revealed made him the more unhappy. He had grown to consider his own unhappiness totally different and infinitely more acute than that of others; he had even taken a sort of morbid, paradoxical pleasure in considering it so; and now even this was taken from him. Not only had his own secret skeleton been visible when he believed it concealed, but all around him there suddenly sprang up a very cemetery of other skeletons, grinning at his blindness and discomfiture. His was not a nature to extract content from common discomfort, and but one palliative suggested itself,—the dull red decanter on the sideboard. Rising again and filling a glass, he returned and stood for a moment full before the open casement of the window gazing down steadily.

How long he stood there he hardly knew. Once Alec's dark face peered into the room, and disappeared as suddenly. At last there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," invited Sidwell, without moving. The door opened and closed, and Winston Hough stood inside. The big man gave one glance at the surroundings, saw the empty glass, and backed away. "Pardon my intrusion," he said with his hand on the knob.

Sidwell turned. "Intrusion—nothing!" He placed the decanter with glasses and a box of cigars on a convenient table. "Come and have a drink with me," and the liquor flowed until both glasses were nearly full.

Hough hesitated in a reluctance that was not feigned. He felt that discretion was the better part of valor, and that it would be well to escape while he could, even at the price of discourtesy.

"Really," he said, "I only dropped in to say hello. I—"

"Nonsense!" interrupted Sidwell. "You must think I'm as innocent as a new-born lamb. Come over here and sit down."

Hough hesitated, but yielded.

Sidwell lifted his glass. "Here's to—whatever the trouble may be that brought you here. People don't visit me for pleasure, or unless they have nowhere else to go. Drink deep!"

They drank; and then Sidwell looking at Hough said, "Well, what is it this time? Going to reform again, or something of that kind, are you?"

Hough did not attempt evasion. He knew it would be useless. "No," he said; "to tell you the truth, I'm lonesome—beastly lonesome."

Sidwell smiled. "Ah, I thought so. But why, pray? Aren't you a married man with an ark of refuge always waiting?"

Hough made a grimace. "Yes, that's just the trouble. I'm too much married, too thoroughly domesticated."

The other looked blank. "I fail to understand. Certainly you and Elise haven't at last—"

"No, no; not that." Hough repelled the suggestion with a gesture as though it were a tangible object. "Elise left to-day to spend a month with her uncle up in northern Wisconsin, and I can't get out of town for a week. I feel as I fancy a small bird feels when it has fallen out of the nest while its mother is away. The bottom seems to have dropped out of town and left me stranded."

The host observed his guest humorously—a bit maliciously. "It is good for you, you complacent benedict," he remarked unsympathetically. "You can understand now the normal state of mind of bachelors. Perhaps after a few more days you'll have been tortured enough to retract the argument you made to me about matrimony. I repeat, it's poetic justice, and good for a man now and then to have a dose of his own medicine."

Hough smiled as at an oft-heard joke. "All right, old man, have it as you please; only let's steer clear of a useless discussion of the subject to-night."

"With all my heart," said Sidwell. The decanter was once more in his hand. "Let's drink to the very good health of Elise on her journey."

Hough hesitated. He had a feeling that there was an obscure desecration in the toast, but it was not tangible enough to resent. "To her very good health," he repeated in turn.

For a moment he looked steadily into the face of his companion, now a trifle flushed. Again an inward monitor warned him it were better to go; but the first flood of the liquor had reached his brain, and the temptation to remain was strong.

"By the way, how are you coming on with your own affair of the heart? Have you propounded the momentous question to the lady?"

Sidwell pulled forward the box of cigars and helped himself to one. "No," he returned with deliberation. "I haven't had a good opportunity. A gentleman from the West, where they wear their hair long and their coat-tails short, has suddenly appeared like an obscuring cloud on the Baker sky. I have a suspicion that he has aspirations for the hand of the lady in question. Anyhow, he's haunted the house like a ghost to-day. Mother Baker has for some reason taken a fancy to your humble servant, and over the 'phone she has kept me informed of the stranger's tribulations. He seems to be meeting with sufficient difficulties without my interposition, so out of the goodness of my heart I've given him an open field. I hope you appreciate my consideration. I fear he's not of a stripe to do so himself."

Hough lit his cigar. "Yes, it certainly was kind of you," he said. "Very kind."

With a sweep of his hand Sidwell brought the two glasses together with a click. "I think so. Kind enough to deserve commemoration by a taste of the elixir of life, don't you agree?" and the liquor flowed beneath a hand steady in the first stages of intoxication.

Hough pushed back his chair. "No," he protested. "I've had enough."

"Enough!" The other laughed unmusically. "Enough! You haven't begun yet. Drink, and forget your loneliness, you benedict disconsolate!"

But again the big man shook his head. "No," he repeated. "I've had enough, and so have you. We'll be drunk, both of us, if we keep up this clip much longer."

The smile left the host's face. "Drunk!" he echoed. "Since when, pray, has that exalted state of the consciousness begun to inspire terror in you? Drunk! Winston Hough, you're the last man I ever thought would fail to prove game on an occasion like this! We're no nearer being babes than we were the last time we got together, unless the termination of life approximates the beginning. Drink!"

But still, this time in silence, Hough shook his head. From a partially open door leading into the adjoining room the negro's eyes peered out.

Sidwell shifted in his seat with exaggerated deliberation and leaned forward. His dark mobile face worked passionately, compellingly. "Winston Hough," he challenged, "do you wish to remain my friend?"

"I certainly do."

"Then you know what to do."

Deep silence fell upon the room. Not only the eyes but the whole of Alec's face appeared through the doorway. Hough could no more have resisted longer than he could have leaped from the open window. They drank together.

"Now," said Sidwell, "just to show that you mean it, we'll have another."

And soon the enemy that puerile man puts into his mouth to steal his brains was enthroned.

Sidwell sank into his chair, and lighting his cigar sent a great cloud of smoke curling up over his head. Hand and tongue were steady, unnaturally so, but the mood of irresponsible confidence was upon him.

"Since you've decided to remain my friend," he said, "I'm going to tell you something confidential, very confidential. You won't give it away?"

"Never!" Hough shook his head.

"On your honor?"

The big man crossed his hands over his heart in the manner of small boys.

Sidwell was satisfied. "All right, then. This is the last time you and I will ever get—this way together."

Hough looked as solemn as though at a funeral. "Why so?" he protested. "Are you angry with me yet?"

"No, it's not that. I've forgiven you."

"What is it, then?" Hough felt that he must know the reason of his lost position, and if in his power remove it.

"I'm going to quit drinking after to-night, for one thing," explained Sidwell. "It isn't adequate. But even if I didn't, I don't expect we'll ever be together again after a few days, after you go away."

The listener looked blank. Even with his muddled brains he had an intimation that there was more in the statement than there seemed.

"I don't see why," he said bewilderedly.

Again Sidwell leaned forward. Again his face grew passionate and magnetic.

"The reason why is this. I have had enough, and more than enough, of this life I've been living. Unless I can find an interest, an extenuation, I would rather be dead, a hundred times over. I've become a nightmare to myself, and I won't stand it. In a few days you'll have departed, and before you return I'll probably have gone too. Nothing but an intervention of Providence can prevent my marrying Florence Baker now. Life isn't a story-book or we who live it undiscerning clods. She knows I am going to ask her to marry me, and I know what her answer will be. We'll be away on our wedding-trip long before you and Elise return in the Fall." The speaker's voice was sober. Only the heightened color of his face betrayed him.

"I say I'm through with this sort of thing," he repeated, "and I mean it. I've tried everything on the face of the earth to find an interest—but one—and Florence Baker represents that one. I hope against hope that I'll find what I'm searching for there, but I am skeptical. I have been disappointed too many times to expect happiness now. This is my last trump, old man, and I'm playing it deliberately and carefully. If it fails, Florence will probably return; but before God, I never will! I have thought it all out. I will leave her more money than she can ever spend—enough if she wishes to buy the elect of the elect. She is young, and she will soon forget—if it's necessary. With me, my actions have largely ceased to be a matter of ethics. I am desperate, Hough, and a desperate man takes what presents itself."

But Hough was in no condition to appreciate the meaning of the selfish revelation of his friend's true character. Since he married his lapses had been infrequent, and already his surroundings were becoming a bit vague. His one ambition was to appear what he was not—sober; and he straightened himself stiffly.

"I see," he said, "sorry to lose you, old pal, very sorry; but what must be must be, I s'pose," and he drew himself together with a jerk.

Sidwell glanced at the speaker sarcastically, almost with a shade of contempt. "I know you're sorry, deucedly sorry," he mocked. "So sorry that you'd probably like to drown your excess of emotion in the flowing bowl." Again the ironic glance swept the other's face. "Another smile would be good for you, anyway. You're entirely too serious. Here you are!" and the decanter once more did service.

Hough picked up his glass and nodded with gravity "Yes, I always was a sad devil." By successive movements the liquor approached his lips. "Lots of troubles and tribulations all my—"

The sentence was not completed; the Cognac remained untasted. At that moment there was a knock upon the door.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE BACK-FIRE

When Ben Blair left the Baker home he went back to his room at the hotel, closed and locked the door, and, throwing off coat and hat, stretched himself full-length upon the floor, gazing up at the ceiling but seeing nothing. It had been a hard fight for self-control there on the prairie the day Florence rejected him, but it was as nothing to the tumult that now raged in his brain. Then, despite his pain, hope had remained. Now hope was lost, and in its place stood a maddening might-have-been. Under the compulsion of his will, the white flood of anger had passed, but it only made more difficult the solution of the problem confronting him. Under the influence of passion the situation would have been a mere physical proposition; but with opportunity to think, another's wishes and another's rights—those of the woman he loved—challenged him at every turn.

At first it seemed that a removal of his physical presence, a going away never to return, was adequate solution of the difficulty; but he soon realized that it was not. Deeper than his own love was his desire for the happiness of the girl he had known from childhood. Had he been certain that she would be happy with the man who had fascinated her, he could have conquered self, could have returned to his prairies, his cattle, his work, and have concealed his hurt. But it was impossible for him to believe she would be happy. Without volition on his part he had become an actor in this drama, this comedy, this tragedy,—whatever it might prove to be; and he felt that it would be an act of cowardice upon his part to leave before the play was ended. He was not in the least religious in the sense of creed and dogma. In all his life he had scarcely given a thought to religion. His knowledge of the Almighty by name had been largely confined to that of a word to conjure with in mastering an obstreperous bronco; but, in the broad sense of personal cleanliness and individual duty, he was religious to the core. He would not shirk a responsibility, and a responsibility faced him now.

Hour after hour he lay prone while his active brain suggested one course after another, all, upon consideration, proving inadequate. Gradually out of the chaos one fundamental fact became distinct in his mind. He must know more of this man Clarence Sidwell before he could leave the city, and this decision brought him to his feet. Under the circumstances, a strategist might have employed others to gather surreptitiously the information desired; but such was not the nature of Benjamin Blair. One thing he had learned in dealing with his fellows, which was that the most effective way to secure the thing one wished was to go direct to the man who had it to give. In this case Sidwell was the man. With a grim smile Ben remembered the invitation and the address he had received the first night he was in town. He would avail himself of both.

Night had fallen long ere this; when Ben arose the room was in darkness, save for the reflected light which came through the heavily curtained windows from the street lamps. He turned on an electric bulb and made a hasty toilet. In doing so his eye fell upon the two big revolvers within the drawer of the dresser; and the same impulse that had caused him to bring them into this land of civilization made him thrust them into his hip pockets. It was more habit than anything else, just as a man with a dog friend feels vaguely uncomfortable unless his pet is with him. Blair had the vigorously recurring appetite of a healthy animal, and it suddenly occurred to him that he had not yet dined. Descending to the street, he sought a cafe and ate a hearty meal.

A half-hour later, the elevator boy of the Metropolitan Block, where Sidwell had his quarters, was surprised, on answering the indicator, to find a young man in an abnormally broad hat and flannel shirt awaiting him. The youth was of vivid imagination, and knowing that a Wild West troupe was performing in town, one glance at Ben's hat, his suspicions became certainty.

"Eleventh floor," he announced, when the passenger had told his destination; then as the car moved upward he gathered courage and looked the rancher fair in the eye.

"Say, Mister," he ventured, "give me a pass to the show, will you?"

For an instant Ben looked blank; then he understood, and his hand sought his trousers' pocket. "Sorry," he explained, "but I don't happen to have any with me. Will this do instead?" and he produced a half-dollar.

The boy brought the car deftly to a stop within a half-inch of the level of the desired floor. "Thank you. Mr. Sidwell—straight ahead, and turn to the left down the short hall," he said obligingly.

Blair stepped out, saying, "Don't fail to be around to-morrow when I do my stunt."

With open-mouthed admiration the boy watched the frontiersman's long free stride—a movement that struck the floor with the springiness of a cat, very different from the flat-footed jar of pedestrians on paved streets.

"I won't!" he called after him. "I'd rather see't than a dozen ball-games! I'll look for you, Mister!"

At the interrupting tap upon the door, Sidwell voiced a languid "Come in," and merely shifted in his seat; but his big companion, with the hospitality of inebriation, had returned his glass unsteadily to the table and arisen. He had taken a couple of uncertain steps, as if to open the door, when, in answer to the summons, Ben Blair stepped inside. Hough halted with a suddenness which all but cost him his equilibrium. The expansive smile upon his face vanished, and he stared as though the bottomless pit had opened at his feet. For a fraction of a minute not one of the three men spoke or stirred, but in that time the steady blue eyes of the countryman took in the details of the scene—the luxurious furnishings, the condition of the two men—with the rapidity and minuteness of a sensitized plate. Ironic chance had chosen an unpropitious night for his call. Intoxication surrounding a bar, under the stimulus of numbers, and preceding or following some exciting event, he could understand, could, perhaps, condone; but this solitary dissipation, drunkenness for its own sake, was something new to him. The observing eyes fastened themselves upon the host's face.

"In response to your invitation," he said evenly, "I've called."

Sidwell roused himself. His face flushed. Despite the liquor in his brain, he felt the inauspicious chance of the meeting.

"Glad you did," he said, with an attempt at ease. "Deucedly glad. I don't know of anyone in the world I'd rather see. Just speaking of you, weren't we?" he said, appealing to Hough. "By the way, Mr.—er—Blair, shake hands with Mr. Hough, Mr. Winston Hough. Mighty good fellow, Hough, but a bit melancholy. Needs cheering up a bit now and then. Needed it badly to-night—almost cried for it, in fact"; and the speaker smiled convivially.

Hough extended his hand with elaborate formality. "Delighted to meet you," he managed to articulate.

"Thank you," returned the other shortly.

Sidwell meanwhile was bringing a third chair and glass. "Come over, gentlemen," he invited, "and we'll celebrate this, the proudest moment of my life. You drink, of course, Mr. Blair?"

Ben did not stir. "Thank you, but I never drink," he said.

"What!" Sidwell smiled sceptically. "A cattle-man, and not refresh yourself with good liquor? You refute all the precedents! Come over and take something!"

Ben only looked at him steadily. "I repeat, I never drink," he said conclusively.

Sidwell sat down, and Hough followed his lead.

"All right, all right! Have a cigar, then. At least you smoke?"

"Yes," assented Blair, "I smoke—sometimes."

The host extended the box hospitably. "Help yourself. They're good ones, I'll answer for that. I import them myself."

Ben took a step forward, but his hands were still in his pockets. "Mr. Sidwell," he said, "we may as well save time and try to understand each other. In some ways I am a bit like an Indian. I never smoke except with a friend, and I am not sure you are a friend of mine. To be candid with you, I believe you are not."

Hough stirred in his chair, but Sidwell remained impassive save that the convivial smile vanished.

A quarter of a minute passed. Once the host took up his glass as if to drink, but put it down untasted. At last he indicated the vacant chair.

"Won't you be seated?" he invited.

Ben sat down.

"You say," continued Sidwell, "that I am not your friend. The statement and your actions carry the implication that of necessity, then, we must be enemies."

The speaker was sparring for time. His brain was not yet normal, but it was clearing rapidly. He saw this was no ordinary man he had to deal with, no ordinary circumstance; and his plan of campaign was unevolved.

"I fail to see why," he continued.

"Do you?" said Ben, quietly.

Sidwell lit a cigar nonchalantly and smoked for a moment in silence.

"Yes," he reiterated. "I fail to see why. To have made you an enemy implies that I have done you an injury, and I recall no way in which I could have offended you."

Ben indicated Hough with a nod of his head. "Do you wish a third party to hear what we have to say?" he inquired.

Sidwell looked at the questioner narrowly. Deep in his heart he was thankful that they two were not alone. He did not like the look in the countryman's blue eyes.

"Mr. Hough," he said with dignity, "is a friend of mine. If either of you must leave the room, most assuredly it will not be he." His eyes returned to those of the visitor, held there with an effort. "By the bye," he challenged, "what is it we have to say, anyway? So far as I can see, there's no point where we touch."

Ben returned the gaze steadily. "Absolutely none?" he asked.

"Absolutely none." Sidwell spoke with an air of finality.

The countryman leaned a bit forward and rested his elbow upon his knee, his chin upon his hand.

"Suppose I suggest a point then: Miss Florence Baker."

Sidwell stiffened with exaggerated dignity. "I never discuss my relations with a lady, even with a friend. I should be less apt to do so in speaking with a stranger."

The lids of Ben's eyes tightened just a shade. "Then I'll have to ask you to make an exception to the rule," he said slowly.

"In that case," Sidwell responded quickly, "I'll refuse."

For a moment silence fell. Through the open window came the ceaseless drone of the shifting multitude on the street below.

"Nevertheless, I insist," said Ben, calmly.

Sidwell's face flushed, although he was quite sober now. "And I must still refuse," he said, rising. "Moreover, I must request that you leave the room. You forget that you are in my home!"

Ben arose calmly and walked to the door through which he had entered. The key was in the lock, and turning it he put it in his pocket. Still without haste he returned to his seat.

"That this is your home, and that you were its dictator before I came and will be after I leave, I do not contest," he said; "but temporarily the place has changed hands. I do not think you were quite in earnest when you refused to talk with me."

For answer, Sidwell jerked a cord beside the table. A bell rang vigorously in the rear of the apartments, and the big negro hurried into the room.

"Alec," directed the master, "call a policeman at once! At once—do you hear?"

"Yes, sah," and the servant started to obey; but the visitor's eye caught his.

"Alec," said Ben, steadily, "don't do that! I'll be the first person to leave this room!"

Instantly Sidwell was on his feet, his face convulsed with passion. "Curse you!" he cried. "You'll pay for this! I'll teach you what it means to hold up a man in his own house!" He turned to his servant with a look that made the latter recoil. "I want you to understand that when I give an order I mean it. Go!"

Blair was likewise on his feet, his long body stretched to its full height, his blue eyes fastened upon the face of the panic-stricken darky.

"Alec," he repeated evenly, "you heard what I said." Without a motion save of his head he indicated a seat in the corner of the room. "Sit down!"

Sidwell took a step forward, his clenched fists raised menacingly.

"Blair! you—you—"

"Yes."

"You—"

"Certainly, I—"

That was all. It was not a lengthy conversation, or a brilliant one, but it was adequate. Face to face, the two men stood looking in each other's eyes, each taking his opponent's measure. Hough had also risen; he expected bloodshed; but not once did Blair stir as much as an eyelid, and after that first step Sidwell also halted. Beneath his supercilious caste dominance he was a physical coward, and at the supreme test he weakened. The flood of anger passed as swiftly as it had come, leaving him impotent. He stood for a moment, and then the clenched fist dropped to his side.

For the first time, Ben Blair moved. Unemotionally as before, his nod indicated the chair in the corner.

"Sit over there as long as I stay, Alec," he directed; and the negro responded with the alacrity of a well-trained dog.

Ben turned to the big man. "And you, too, Hough. My business has nothing to do with you, but it may be well to have a witness. Be seated, please."

Hough obeyed in silence. Sober as Sidwell now, his mind grasped the situation, and in spite of himself he felt his sympathy going out to this masterful plainsman.

Ben Blair now turned to the host, and as he did so his wiry figure underwent a transformation that lived long in the spectators' minds. With his old characteristic motion, his hands went into his trousers' pockets, his chest expanded, his great chin lifted until, looking down, his eyes were half closed.

"You, Mr. Sidwell," he said, "can stand or sit, as you please; but one thing I warn you not to do—don't lie to me. We're in the home of lies just now, but it can't help you. Your face says you are used to having your own way, right or wrong. Now you'll know the reverse. So long as you speak the truth, I won't hurt you, no matter what you say. If you don't, and believe in God, you'd best make your peace with Him. Do you doubt that?"

One glance only Sidwell raised to the towering face, and his eyes fell. Every trace of fight, of effrontery, had left him, and he dropped weakly into his chair.

"No, I don't doubt you," he said.

Ben likewise sat down, but his eyes were inexorable.

"First of all, then," he went on, "you will admit you were mistaken when you said there was no point where we touched?"

"Yes, I was mistaken."

"And you were not serious when you refused to talk with me?"

A spasm of repugnance shot over the host's dark face. He heard the labored breathing of the negro in the corner, and felt the eyes of his big friend upon him.

"Yes, I was not serious," he admitted slowly.

Ben's long legs crossed, his hands closed on the chair-arms.

"Very well, then," he said. "Tell me what there is between you and Miss Baker."

Sidwell lit a cigar, though the hand that held the match trembled.

"Everything, I hope," he said. "I intend marrying her."

The ranchman's face gave no sign at the confession.

"You have asked her, have you?"

"No. Your coming prevented. I should otherwise have done so to-day."

The long fingers on the chair-arms tightened until they grew white.

"You knew why I came to town, did you not?"

Sidwell hesitated.

"I had an intuition," he admitted reluctantly.

Again silence fell, and the subdued roar of the city came to their ears.

"You have not called at the Baker home to-day," continued Blair. "Was it consideration for me that kept you away?" The thin, weather-browned face grew, if possible, more clean-cut. "Remember to talk straight."

Sidwell took the cigar from his lips. An exultation he could not quite repress flooded him. His eyes met the other's fair.

"No," he said, "it was anything but consideration for you. I knew she was going to refuse you."

In the corner the negro's eyes widened. Even Hough held his breath; but not a muscle of Ben Blair's body stirred.

"You say you knew," he said evenly. "How did you know?"

Sidwell flicked the ash from his cigar steadily. He was regaining, if not his courage, at least some of his presence of mind. This seeming desperado from the West was a being upon whom reason was not altogether wasted.

"I knew because her mother told me—about all there was to tell, I guess—of your relations before Florence came here. I knew if she refused you then she would be more apt to do so now."

Still the figure in brown was that of a statue.

"She told you—what—you say?"

Sidwell shifted uncomfortably. He saw breakers ahead.

"The—main reason at least," he modified.

"Which was—" insistently.

Sidwell hesitated, his new-found confidence vanishing like the smoke from his cigar. But there was no escape.

"The reason, she said, was because you were—minus a pedigree."

The last words dropped like a bomb in the midst of the room. Ben Blair swiftly rose from his seat. The negro's eyes rolled around in search of some place of concealment. With a protesting movement Hough was on his feet.

"Gentlemen!" he implored. "Gentlemen!"

But the intervention was unnecessary. Ben Blair had settled back in his seat. Once more his hands were on the chair-arms.

"Do you," he insinuated gently, "consider the reason she gave an adequate one? Do you consider that it had any rightful place in the discussion?"

The question, seemingly simple, was hard to answer. An affirmative trembled on the city man's tongue. He realized it was his opportunity for a crushing rejoinder. But cold blue eyes were upon him and the meaning of their light was only too clear.

"I can understand the lady's point of view," he said evasively.

Ben Blair leaned forward, the great muscles of his jaw and temples tightening beneath the skin.

"I did not ask for the lady's point of view," he admonished, "I asked for your own."

Again Sidwell felt his opportunity, but physical cowardice intervened. No power on earth could have made him say "yes" when the other looked at him like that.

"No," he lied, "I do not see that it should make the slightest difference."

"On your honor, you swear you do not?"

Sidwell repeated the statement, and sealed it with his honor.

Ben Blair relaxed, and Hough mopped his brow with a sigh of relief. Even Sidwell felt the respite, but it was short-lived.

"I think," Ben resumed, "that what you've just said and sworn to gives the lie to your original statement that you have given me no cause for enmity. According to your own showing you are the one existing obstacle between Florence Baker and myself. Is it not so?"

Like a condemned criminal, Sidwell felt the noose tightening.

"I can't deny it," he admitted.

For some seconds Ben Blair looked at him with an expression almost menacing. When he again spoke the first trace of passion was in his voice.

"Such being the case, Clarence Sidwell," he went on, "caring for Florence Baker as I do, and knowing you as I do, why in God's name should I leave you, coward, in possession of the dearest thing to me in the world?" For an instant the voice paused, the protruding lower jaw advanced until it became a positive disfigurement. "Tell me why I should sacrifice my own happiness for yours. I have had enough of this word-play. Speak!"

In every human life there is at some time a supreme moment, a tragic climax of events; and Sidwell realized that for him this moment had arrived. Moreover, it had found him helpless and unprepared. Artificial to the bone, he was fundamentally disqualified to meet such an emergency; for artifice or subterfuge would not serve him now. One hasty glance into that relentless face caused him to turn his own away. Long ago, in the West, he had once seen a rustler hung by a posse of ranchers. The inexorable expression he remembered on the surrounding faces was mirrored in Ben Blair's. His brain whirled; he could not think. His hand passed aimlessly over his face; he started to speak, but his voice failed him.

Ben Blair shifted forward in his seat. The long sinewy fingers gripped the chair like a panther ready to spring.

"I am listening," he admonished.

Sidwell felt the air of the room grow stifling. A big clock was ticking on the wall, and it seemed to him the second-beats were minutes apart. His downcast eyes just caught the shape of the hands opposite him, and in fancy he felt them already tightening upon his throat. Like a drowning man, scenes in his past life swarmed through his brain. He saw his mother, his sisters, at home in the old family mansion; his friends at the club, chatting, laughing, drinking, smoking. In an impersonal sort of way he wondered how they would feel, what they would say, when they heard. On the vision swept. It was Florence Baker he saw now—Florence, all in fleecy white; the girl and himself were on the broad veranda of the Baker home. They were not alone. Another figure—yes, this same menacing figure now so near—was on the walk below them, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, but leaving. Florence was speaking; a smile was upon her lips.

Like a flash of lightning the images of fancy passed, the present returned. At last came the solution once before suggested,—the back-fire! Sidwell straightened, every nerve in his body tense. He spoke—and scarcely recognized his own voice.

"There is a reason," he said, "a very adequate reason, one which concerns another more than it does us." With a supreme effort of will the man met the blue eyes of his opponent squarely. "It is because Florence Baker loves me and doesn't love you. Because she would never forgive you, never, if you did—what you think of doing now."

For an instant the listening figure remained tense, and it seemed to Sidwell that his own pulse ceased beating; then the long sinewy body collapsed as under a physical blow.

"God!" said a low voice. "I forgot!"

Not one of the three spectators stirred or spoke. Like sheep, they awaited the lead of their master.

And it came full soon. Stiffly, clumsily, still in silence, Ben Blair arose. His face was drawn and old, his step was slow and halting. Like one walking in his sleep, he made his way to the door, took the key from his pocket, and turned the lock. Not once did he speak or glance back. The door closed softly, and he was gone.

Behind him for a second there was silence, inactive incredulity as at a miracle performed; then, in a blaze of long repressed fury, Sidwell stood beside the table. Not pausing for a glass, he raised the red decanter to his lips and drank, drank, as though the liquor were water.

"Curse him! I'll marry that girl now if for no other reason than to get even with him. If it's the last act of my life, I swear I'll marry her!"



CHAPTER XXIV

THE UPPER AND THE NETHER MILLSTONES

Out on the street once more, Ben Blair looked about him as one awakening from a dream. From the darkened arch of a convenient doorway he watched the endless passing throng with a dull sort of wonder. He was surprised that the city should be awake at that late hour; and stepping out into the light he held up his watch. The hands indicated a few minutes past ten, and in surprise he carried the timepiece to his ear. Yes, it was running, and must be correct. He had seemed to be up there on the eleventh floor for hours; but as a matter of fact it had been only minutes. Practically, the whole night was yet before him.

Slowly, in a listless way, he started to walk back to his hotel. Instead of the night becoming cooler it had grown sultrier, and in places the walk was fairly packed with human beings. More than once he had to turn out of his way to pass the chattering groups. In so doing he was often conscious that the flow of small talk suddenly ceased, and that, nudging each other, the chatterers pointed his way. At first he looked about to see what had attracted them, but he very soon realized that he himself was the object of attention. Even here, cosmopolitan as were the surroundings, he was a marked man, was recognized as a person from a wholly different life; and his feeling of isolation deepened. He moved on more swiftly.

The sidewalk in front of his hotel was fringed with a row of chairs, in which sat guests in various stages of negligee costume. Nearly every man was smoking, and the effect in the semi-darkness was like that of footlights turned low. Steps and lobby were likewise crowded; but Ben made his way straight to his room. One idea now possessed him. His business was finished, and he wanted to be away. Turning on a light, he found a railroad guide and ran down the columns of figures. There was no late night train going West; he must wait until morning. Extinguishing the light, he drew a chair to the open window and lit a cigar.

With physical inactivity, consciousness of his surroundings forced themselves on his attention. Subdued, pulsating, penetrating, the murmur of the great hotel came to his ears; the drone of indistinguishable voices, the pattering footsteps of bell-boys and habitues, the purr of the elevator as it moved from floor to floor, the click of the gate as it stopped at his own level, the renewed monotone as it passed by.

Continuous, untiring, the sounds suggested the unthinking vitality of a steam-engine or of a dynamo in a powerhouse. A mechanic by nature, as a school-boy Ben had often induced Scotty to take him to the electric light station, where he had watched the great machines with a fascination bordering on awe, until fairly dragged away by the prosaic Englishman. This feeling of his childhood recurred to him now with irresistible force. The throb of the motor of human life was pulsating in his ears; but added to it was something more, something elusive, intangible, but all-powerful. The moment he had arrived within the city limits he had felt the first trace of its presence. As he approached the centre of congestion it had deepened, had become more and more a guiding influence. Since then, by day or by night, wherever he went, augmenting or diminishing, it was constantly with him. And it was not with him alone. Every human being with whom he came in contact was likewise consciously or unconsciously under the spell. The crowds he had passed on the streets were unthinkingly answering its guidance. The trolley cars echoed its voice. It was the spirit of unrest—a thing ubiquitous and all-penetrating as the air that filled their lungs—a subtle stimulant that they took in with every breath.

Ben Blair arose and put on his hat. He had been sitting only a few minutes, but he felt that he could not longer bear the inactivity. To do so meant to think; and thought was the thing that to-night he was attempting to avoid. Moreover, for one of the few times in his life he could remember he was desperately lonely. It seemed to him that nowhere within a thousand miles was another of his own kind. Instinctively he craved relief, and that alleviation could come in but one way,—through physical activity. Again he sought the street.

To some persons a great relief from loneliness is found in mingling with a crowd, even though it be of strangers; but Ben was not like these. His desire was to be away as far as possible from the maddening drone. Boarding a street car, he rode out into the residence section, clear to the end of the loop; then, alighting, he started to walk back. A full moon had arisen, and outside the shadow-blots of trees and buildings the earth was all alight. The asphalt of the pavements and the cement of the walks glistened white under its rays. Loth to sacrifice the comparative out-of-door coolness for the heat within, practically every house had its group on the doorsteps, or scattered upon the narrow lawns. Accustomed to magnificent distances, to boundless miles of surrounding country, to privacy absolute, Ben watched this scene with a return of the old wonder,—the old feeling of isolation, of separateness. Side by side, young men and women, obviously lovers, kept their places, indifferent to his observation. Other couples, still more careless, sat with circling arms and faces close together, returning his gaze impassively. Nothing, apparently, in the complex gamut of human nature was sacred to these folk. To the solitary spectator, the revelation was more depressing than even the down-town unrest; and he hurried on.

Further ahead he came to the homes of the wealthy,—great piles of stone and brick, that seemed more like hotels than residences. The forbidding darkness of many of the houses testified that their owners were out of town, at the seaside or among the mountains; but others were brilliantly lighted from basement to roof. Before one a long line of carriages was drawn up. Stiffly liveried footmen, impassive as automatons, waited the erratic pleasure of their masters. A little group of spectators was already gathered, and Ben likewise paused, observing the spectacle curiously.

A social event of some sort was in progress. From some concealed place came the music of a string orchestra. Every window of the great pile was open for ventilation, and Ben could hear and see almost as plainly as the guests themselves. For a time, deep, insistent, throbbing in measured beat, came the drone of the 'cello, the wail of the clarionet, and, faintly audible beneath, the rustle of moving feet. Then the music ceased; and a few seconds later a throng of heated dancers swarmed through the open doorway to the surrounding veranda, and simultaneously a chatter broke forth. Fans, like gigantic butterfly wings, vibrated to and fro. Skilful waiters, in black and white, glanced in and out. Laughter, thoughtless and care-free, mingled in the general scene.

The music still, Ben Blair was about to move on, when suddenly a man and a girl in the shadow of a window on the second floor caught and held his attention. As far as he could see, they were alone. Evidently one or the other of them knew the house intimately, and had deliberately sought the place. From the veranda beneath, the flow of talk continued uninterruptedly; but they gave it no attention. The spectator could distinctly see the man as he leaned back in the light and spoke earnestly. At times he gesticulated with rapid passionate motions, such as one unconsciously uses when deeply absorbed. Now and again, with the bodily motions that we have learned to connect with the French, his shoulders were shrugged expressively. He was obviously talking against time; for his every motion showed intense concentration. No spectator could have mistaken the nature of his speech. Passion supreme, abandon absolute, were here personified. As he spoke, he gradually leaned farther forward toward the woman who listened. His face was no longer in the light. Suddenly, at first low, as though coming from a distance, increasing gradually until it throbbed into the steady beat of a waltz, the music recommenced. It was the signal for action and for throwing off restraint. The man leaned forward; his arm stretched out and closed about the figure of the woman. His face pressed forward to meet hers, again and again.

Not Ben alone, but a half-dozen other spectators had watched the scene. An overdressed girl among the number tittered at the sight.

But Ben scarcely noticed. With the strength of insulted womanhood, the girl had broken free, and now stood up full in the light. One look she gave to the man, a look which should have withered him with its scorn; then, gathering her skirts, she almost ran from the room.

Only a few seconds had the girl's face been clear of the shadow; yet it had been long enough to permit recognition, and instantly liquid fire flowed in the veins of Benjamin Blair. His breath came quick and short as that of a runner passing under the wire, and his great jaw set. The woman he had seen was Florence Baker.

With one motion he was upon the terrace leading toward the house. Another second, and he would have been well upon his way, when a hand grasped him from behind and drew him back. With a half-articulated imprecation Ben turned—and stood fronting Scotty Baker. The Englishman's face was very white. Behind the compound lenses his eyes glowed in a way Ben had not thought possible; but his voice was steady when he spoke.

"I saw too, Ben," he said, "and I understand. I know what you want to do, and God knows I want to do the same thing myself; but it would do no good; it would only make the matter worse." He looked at the younger man fixedly, almost imploringly. His voice sank. "As you care for Florence, Ben, go away. Don't make a scene that will do only harm. Leave her with me. I came to take her home, and I'll do so at once." The speaker paused, and his hand reached out and grasped the other's with a grip unmistakable. "I appreciate your motive, my boy, and I honor it. I know how you feel; and whatever I may have been in the past, from this time on I am your friend. I am your friend now, when I ask you to go," and he fairly forced his companion away.

Once outside the crowd, Ben halted. He gave the Englishman one long look; his lips opened as if to speak; then, without a word, he moved away.

There was no listlessness about him now. He was throbbing with repressed energy, like a great engine with steam up. His feet tapped with the regularity of clock-ticks over mile after mile of the city walks. He longed for physical weariness, for sleep; but the day, with its manifold mental exaltations and depressions, prevented. It seemed to him that he could never sleep again, could never again be weary. He could only walk on and on.

Down town again, he found the crowds smaller and the border of chairs in front of his hotel largely empty. A few cigars still burned in the half-light, but they were the last flicker of a conflagration now all but extinguished. The restless throb of the human dynamo was lower and more subdued. The street cars were practically empty. Instead of a constant stream of vehicles, an occasional cab clattered past. The city was preparing for its brief hours of fitful rest.

Straight on Ben walked, between the towering office buildings, beside the now darkened department-store hives, past the giant wholesale establishments and warehouses; until, quite unintentionally on his part, and almost before he realized it, he found himself in another world, another city, as distinct as though it were no part of the cosmopolitan whole. Again he came upon throbbing life; but of quite another type. Once more he met people in abundance, noisy, chattering human beings; but more frequently than his own he now heard foreign tongues that he did not understand, and did not even recognize. No longer were the pedestrians well dressed or apparently prosperous. Instead, poverty and squalor and filth were rampant. More loth even than the well-to-do of the suburbs to go within doors, the swarming mass of humanity covered the steps of the houses, and overflowed upon the sidewalk, even upon the street itself. There were men, women, children; the lame, the halt, the blind. The elders stared at the visitor, while the youngsters, secure in numbers, guyed him to their hearts' content.

It was all as foreign to any previous experience of this countryman as though he had come from a different planet. He had read of the city slums as of Stanley's Central African negro tribes with unpronounceable names; and he had thought of them in much the same way. To him they had been something known to exist, but with which it was but remotely probable he would ever come in contact. Now, without preparation or premeditation, thrown face to face with the reality, it brought upon him a sickening feeling, a sort of mental nausea. Ben was not a philanthropist or a social reformer; the inspiring thought of the inexhaustible field for usefulness therein presented had never occurred to him. He wished chiefly to get away from the stench and ugliness; and, turning down a cross street, he started to return.

The locality he now entered was more modern and better lighted than the one he left behind. The decorated building fronts, with their dazzling electric signs, partook of the characteristics of the inhabitants, who seemed overdressed and vulgarly ostentatious. The gaudily trapped saloons, cafes, and music halls, spoke a similar message. This was the recreation spot of the people of the quarter; their land of lethe. So near were the saloons and drinking gardens that from their open doorways there came a pungent odor of beer. Every place had instrumental music of some kind. Mandolins and guitars, in the hands of gentlemen of color, were the favorites. Pianos of execrable tone, played by youths with defective complexions, or by machinery, were a close second. Before one place, a crowd blocked the sidewalk; and there Ben stopped. A vaudeville performance was going on within—an invisible dialect comedian doing a German stunt to the accompaniment of wooden clogs and disarranged verbs. A barker in front, coatless, his collar loosened, a black string tie dangling over an unclean shirt front, was temporarily taking a much-needed rest. An electric sign overhead dyed his cheeks with shifting colors—first red, then green, then white. Despite its veneer of brazen effrontery, the face, with its great mouth and two days' growth of beard, was haggard and weary looking. Ben mentally pictured, with a feeling of compassion, other human beings doing their idiotic "stunts" inside, sweltering in the foul air; and he wondered how, if an atom of self-respect remained in their make-up, they could fail to despise themselves.

But the comedian had subsided in a roar of applause, and again the barker's hands were gesticulating wildly.

"Now's your time, ladies and gentlemen," he harangued. "It's continuous, you know, and Madame—"

But Ben did not wait for more. Elbow first, he pushed into the crowd, and as it instantly closed about him the odor of unclean bodies made him fairly hold his breath.

Straight ahead, looking neither to right nor to left, went the countryman; he turned the corner of the block, a corner without a light. Suddenly, with an instinctive tightening of his breath, he drew back. He had nearly stepped upon a man, dead drunk, stretched half in a darkened doorway, half on the walk. The wretch's head was bent back over one of the iron steps until it seemed as if he must choke, and he was snoring heavily.

Not a policeman was in sight, and Ben, in great physical disgust, carried the helpless hulk to one side, out of the way of pedestrians, took off the tattered coat and rolled it into a pillow for the head, and then moved on with the sound of the stertorous drunken breathing still in his ears.

Still other experiences were in store for him. He made a half block without further interruption; then he suddenly heard at his back a frightened scream, and a young woman came running toward him, followed at a distance by a roughly dressed man, the latter apparently the worse for liquor. Blair stopped, and the girl coming up, caught him by the arm imploringly.

"Help me, Mister, please!" she pleaded breathlessly. "He—Tom, back there—insulted me. I—" A burst of hysterical tears interrupted the confession.

Meanwhile, seeing the turn events had taken, the pursuer had likewise stopped, and now he hesitated.

"All right," replied Ben. "Go ahead! I'll see that the fellow doesn't trouble you again." And he started back.

But the girl's hand was again upon his arm. "No," she protested, "not that way, please. He's my steady, Tom is, only to-night he's drank too much, and—and—he doesn't realize what he's doing." The grip on his arm tightened as she looked imploringly into his face. "Take me home, please!" A catch was in her voice. "I'm afraid."

Ben hesitated. Even in the half-light the petitioner's face hinted brazenly of cosmetics.

"Where do you live?" he asked shortly.

"Only a little way, less than a block, and it's the direction you're going. Please take me!"

"Very well," said Blair, and they moved on, the girl still clinging to him and sobbing at intervals. Before a dark three-story and basement building, with a decidedly sinister aspect, she stopped and indicated a stairway.

"This is the place."

"All right," responded Ben. "I guess you're safe now. Good-night!"

But she clung to him the tighter. "Come up with me," she insisted. "We're only on the second floor, and I haven't thanked you yet. Really, I'm so grateful! You don't know what it means to be a girl, and—and—" Her feelings got the better of her again, and she paused to wipe her eyes on her sleeve. "My mother will be so thankful too. She'd never forgive me if I didn't bring you up. Please come!" and she led the way up the darkened stair.

Again Ben hesitated. He did not in the least like the situation in which circumstances had placed him. The prospect of the girl's mother, like herself, scattering grateful tears upon him was not alluring; but it seemed the part of a cad to refuse, and at last he followed.

His guide led him up a short flight of stairs and turned to the right, down a dimly lighted hall. The ground-floor of the building was used for store purposes. This second floor was evidently a series of apartments. Lights from within the rooms crept over the curtained transoms. Voices sounded; glasses clinked. A piano banged out ragtime like mad.

At the fourth door the girl stopped. "Thank you so much for coming," she said. "Walk right in," and throwing open the door she fairly shoved the visitor inside.

From out the semi-darkness, Ben now found himself in a well-lighted room, and the change made him blink about him. Instead of the motherly old lady in a frilled cap, whom he had expected to see, he found himself in the company of a half-dozen coatless young men and under-dressed women, lounging in questionable attitudes on chairs and sofas. At his advent they all looked up. A sallow youth who had been operating the piano turned in his seat and the music stopped. Not yet realizing the trick that had been played upon him, Ben turned to look for his guide; but she was nowhere in sight, and the door was closed. His eyes shifted back and met a circle of amused faces, while a burst of mocking laughter broke upon his ears.

Then for the first time he understood, and his face went white with anger. Without a word he started to leave the room. But one of the women was already at his side, her detaining hand upon his sleeve. "No, no, honey!" she said, insinuatingly. "We're all good fellows! Stay awhile!"

Ben shook her off roughly. Her very touch was contaminating. But one of the men had had time to get between him and the door; a sarcastic smile was upon his face as he blocked the way.

"I guess it's on you, old man!" he bantered. "About a half-dozen quarts will do for a starter!" He nodded to a pudgy old woman who was watching interestedly from the background. "You heard the gent's order, mother! Beer, and in a hurry! He looks dry and hot."

Again a gale of laughter broke forth; but Ben took no notice. He made one step forward, until he was within arm's reach of the humorist.

"Step out of my way, please," he said evenly.

Had the man been alone he would have complied, and quickly. No human being with eyes and intelligence could have misread the warning on Ben Blair's countenance. He started to move, when the girl who had first come forward turned the tide.

"Aw, Charley!" she goaded. "Is that all the nerve you've got!" and she laughed ironically.

Instantly the man's face reddened, and he fell back into his first position.

"Sorry I can't oblige you, pal," he said, "but you see it's agin de house. Us blokes has got—"

The sentence was never completed. Ben's fist shot out and caught the speaker fair on the point of his jaw, and he collapsed in his tracks. For a second no one in the room stirred; then before Ben could open the door, the other men were upon him. The women fled screaming to the farthest corner of the room, where they huddled together like sheep. Returning with the tray, the old woman realized an only too familiar condition.

"Gentlemen!" she pleaded. "Gentlemen!"

But no one paid the slightest attention to her. Forced by sheer odds of mass toward a corner, Ben's long arms were working like flails. Another man fell, and was up again. The first one also was upon his feet now, his face white, and a tiny stream of blood trickling from his bruised jaw. A heavy beer-bottle flung by one of the women crashed on the wall over the countryman's head, the contents spattering over him like rain. One of the men had seized a chair and swung it high, to strike, with murder in his eye. Attracted by the confusion, the other occupants of the floor had rushed into the hall. The door was flung open and instantly blocked with a mass of sinister menacing faces.

Until then, Ben had been silent as death, silent as one who realizes that he is fighting for life against overwhelming odds. Now of a sudden he leaped backward like a great cat, clear of all the others. From his throat there issued a sound, the like of which not one of those who listened had ever heard before, and which fairly lifted their hair—the Indian war-whoop that the man had learned as a boy. With the old instinctive motion, comparable in swiftness to nothing save the passage of light, the cowboy's hands went to his hips, and as swiftly returned with the muzzles of two great revolvers protruding like elongated index fingers. With equal swiftness, his face had undergone a transformation. His jaw was set and his blue eyes flashed like live coals.

"Stand back, little folks!" he ordered, while the twin weapons revolved in circles of reflected flame about his trigger fingers. "You seem to want a show, and you shall have it!" The whirling circles vanished. A deep report fell upon the silence, and a gaudy vase on the mantle flew into a thousand pieces. "Stand back, people, or you might get hurt!"

Awed into dumb helplessness, the spectators stared with widening eyes; but the spectacle had only begun. Like the reports of giant fire-crackers, only seconds apart, the great revolvers spoke. A nudely suggestive cast in the corner followed the vase. A quaintly carved clock paused in its measure of time, its hands chronicling the minute of interruption. A decanter of whiskey burst spattering over a table. Two bacchanalian pictures on the wall suddenly had yawning wounds in their centre. The portrait of a queen of the footlights leaped into the air. One of the beer-bottles, which the madame had placed on a convenient table, popped as though it were champagne. Fragments of glass and porcelain fell about like hail. The place was lighted by a tuft of three big incandescent globes; and, last of all, one by one, they crashed into atoms, and the room was in total darkness. Then silence fell, startling in contrast to the late confusion, while the pungent odor of burnt gunpowder intruded upon the nostrils.

For a moment there was inaction; then the assembly broke into motion. No thought was there now of retaliation or revenge; only, as at a sudden conflagration or a wreck, of individual safety and escape. The hallway was cleared as if by magic. Within the room the men and women jostled each other in the darkness, or jammed imprecating in the narrow doorway. In a few seconds Ben was alone. Calmly he thrust the empty revolvers back into his pockets and followed leisurely into the hall. There the dim light revealed an empty space; but here and there a lock turned gratingly, and from more than one room as he passed came the sound of furniture being hastily drawn forward as a barricade.

No human being ever knew what occurred behind the locked door of Ben Blair's room at the hotel that night. Those hours were buried as deep as what took place in his mind during the months intervening between the coming of Florence Baker to the city and his own decision to follow her. By nature a solitary, he fought his battles alone and in silence. That he never once touched his bed, the hotel maids could have testified the next morning. As to the decision that followed those sleepless hours, his own action gave a clue. He had left a call for an early train West, and at daylight a tap sounded on his door, while a voice announced the time.

"Yes," answered the guest; but he did not stir.

In a few minutes the tap was repeated more insistently. "You've only time to make your train if you hurry," warned the voice.

For a moment Blair did not answer. Then he said: "I have decided not to go."



CHAPTER XXV

OF WHAT AVAIL?

It was late next morning, almost noon in fact, when Florence Baker awoke; and even then she did not at once rise. A physical listlessness, very unusual to her, lay upon her like a weight. A year ago, by this time of day, she would have been ravenously hungry; but now she had a feeling that she could not have taken a mouthful of food had her life depended on it. The room, although it faced the west and was well ventilated, seemed hot and depressing. A breeze stirred the lace curtains at the window, but it was heated by the blocks of city pavements over which it had come. The girl involuntarily compared this awakening with that of a former life in what now seemed to her the very long ago. She remembered the light morning wind of the prairies, which, always fresh with the coolness of dew and of growing things, had drifted in at the tiny windows of the Baker ranch-house. She recalled the sweet scent of the buffalo grass with a vague sense of depression and irrevocable loss.

She turned restlessly beneath the covers, and in doing so her face came in contact with the moistened surface of her pillow. Propping herself up on her elbow, she looked curiously at the tell-tale bit of linen. Obviously, she had been crying in her sleep; and for this there must have been a reason. Until that moment she had not thought of the previous night; but now the sudden recollection overwhelmed her. She was only a girl-woman—a child of nature, incapable of repression. Two great tears gathered in her soft brown eyes; with instinctive desire of concealment the fluffy head dropped to the pillow, and the sobs broke out afresh.

Minutes passed; then her mother's hesitating steps approached the door.

"Florence," called a voice. "Florence, are you well?"

The dishevelled brown head lifted, but the girl made no motion to let her mother in.

"Yes—I am well," she echoed.

For a moment Mrs. Baker hesitated, but she was too much in awe of her daughter to enter uninvited.

"I have a note for you," she announced. "Mr. Sidwell's man Alec just brought it. He says there's to be an answer."

But still the girl did not move. It was an unpropitious time to mention the club-man's name. The fascination of such as he fades at early morning; it demands semi-darkness or artificial light. Just now the thought of him was distinctly depressing, like the sultry breeze that wandered in at the window.

"Very well," said Florence, at last. "Leave it, please, and tell Alec to wait. I'll be down directly."

In response, an envelope with a monogram in the corner was slipped in under the door, and the bearer's footsteps tapped back into silence.

Slowly the girl crawled from her bed, but she did not at once take up the note. Instead, she walked over to the dresser, and, leaning on its polished top, gazed into the mirror at the reflection of her tear-stained face, with its mass of disarranged hair. It was not a happy face that she saw; and just at this moment it looked much older than it really was. The great brown eyes inspected it critically and relentlessly.

"Florence Baker," she said to the face in the mirror, "you are getting to be old and haggard." A prophetic glimpse of the future came to her suddenly. "A few years more, and you will not be even—good-looking."

She stood a moment longer, then, walking over to the door, she picked up the envelope and tore it open.

"Miss Baker," ran the note, "there is to be an informal little gathering—music, dancing, and a few things cool—at the Country Club this evening. You already know most of the people who will be there. May I call for you?—Sidwell."

Florence read the missive slowly; then slowly returned it to its cover. There was no need to tell her the meaning of the unwritten message she read between the lines of those few brief sentences. It is only in story-books that human beings do not even suspect the inevitable until it arrives. As well as she knew her own name, she realized that in her answer to that evening's invitation lay the choice of her future life. She was at the turning of the ways—a turning that admitted of no reconsideration. Dividing at her feet, each equally free, were the trails of the natural and the artificial. For a time they kept side by side; but in the distance they were as separate as the two ends of the earth. By no possibility could both be followed. She must choose between them, and abide by her decision for good or for ill.

As slowly as she had read the note, Florence dressed; and even then she did not leave the room. Bathing her reddened eyes, she drew a chair in front of the window and gazed wistfully down at the handful of green grass, with the unhealthy-looking elm in its centre, which made the Baker lawn. Against her will there came to her a vision of the natural, impersonated in the form of Ben Blair as she had seen him yesterday. Masterful, optimistic, compellingly honest, splendidly vital, with loves and hates like elemental forces of nature, he intruded upon her horizon at every crisis. Try as she would to eliminate him from her life, she could not do it. With a little catch of the breath she remembered that last night, when that man had done—what he did—it was not of what her father or Clarence Sidwell would think, if either of them knew, but of what Ben Blair would think, what he would do, that she most cared. Reluctant as she might be to admit it even to herself, yet in her inner consciousness she knew that this prairie man had a power over her that no other human being would ever have. Still, knowing this, she was deliberately turning away from him. If she accepted that invitation for to-night, with all that it might mean, the separation from Ben would be irrevocable. Once more the brown head dropped into the waiting hands, and the shoulders rocked to and fro in indecision and perplexity.

"God help me!" she pleaded, in the first prayer she had voiced in months. "God help me!"

Again footsteps approached her door, and a hand tapped insistently thereon.

"Florence," said her father's voice. "Are you up?"

The girl lifted her head. "Yes," she answered.

"Let me in, then." The insistence that had been in the knock spoke in the voice. "I wish to speak with you."

Instantly an expression almost of repulsion flashed over the girl's brown face. Never in his life had the Englishman understood his daughter. He was a glaring example of those who cannot catch the psychological secret of human nature in a given situation. From the girl's childhood he had been complaisant when he should have been severe, had stepped in with the parental authority recognized by his race when he should have held aloof.

"Some other time, please," replied Florence. "I don't feel like talking to-day."

Scotty's knuckles met the door-panel with a bang. "But I do feel like it," he responded; "and the inclination is increasing every moment. You would try the patience of Job himself. Come, I'm waiting!" and he shifted from one foot to the other restlessly.

Within the room there was a pause, so long that the Englishman thought he was going to be refused point-blank; then an even voice said, "Come in," and he entered.

He had expected to find Florence defiant and aggressive at the intrusion. If he did not understand this daughter of his, he at least knew, or thought he knew, a few of her phases. But she had not even risen from her seat, and when he entered she merely turned her head until her eyes met his. Scotty felt his parental dignity vanishing like smoke,—his feelings very like those of a burglar who, invading a similar boudoir, should find the rightful owner at prayer. His first instinct was to beat a retreat, and he stopped uncertainly just within the doorway.

"Well?" questioned Florence, and the pupils of her brown eyes widened.

Scotty flushed, but memory of the impassive Alec waiting below returned, and his anger arose.

"How much longer are you going to keep that negro waiting?" he demanded. "He has been here an hour already by the clock."

A look of almost childlike surprise came over the face of the girl, an expression implying that the other was making a mountain out of a mole-hill. "I really don't know," she said.

Scotty took a chair, and ran his long fingers through his hair perplexedly. "Florence," he said, "at times you are simply maddening; and I do not want to be angry with you. Alec says he is waiting for an answer. What is it an answer to, please? It is my right to know."

Again there was a pause, so long that Scotty expected unqualified refusal: and again he was disappointed. Without a word, the girl removed the note from the envelope and passed it over to him.

Scotty read it and returned the sheet.

"You haven't written an answer yet, I judge?"

"No."

The Englishman's fingers were tapping nervously on the edge of the chair-seat.

"I wish you to decline, then."

The childish expression left the girl's eyes, the listlessness left her attitude.

"Why, if I may ask?" A challenge was in the query.

Scotty arose, and for a half-minute walked back and forth across the disordered room. At last he stopped, facing his daughter.