Part 15 (1/2)

The argument was irresistible and Randall capitulated.

”No, none whatever,” he answered, as he was expected to answer; and once more sweet peace rested on the house of Randall.

Back in her place opposite once more Margery looked at her husband seriously, a pucker of perplexity on her smooth face.

”By the way,” she digressed, ”I've been wondering for some time now if anything's wrong with Elice and Steve. Has he hinted anything to you?”

”No; why?”

”Oh, I don't know anything definite; but he's been here three evenings the last week, you know, Sunday evening for one at that, and it looks queer.”

”I've noticed it too,” admitted Randall, ”and he's coming again this evening. He asked permission and I couldn't well refuse. Not that I don't like to have him come,” quickly, ”but it interferes with my lectures next morning.”

”And with our own evenings. I--just wish he wouldn't come so often.”

Randall said nothing, but unconsciously he was stroking the bald spot already appearing on the crown of his head in a way he had when worried.

”And, besides,” justified Margery, ”it isn't treating Elice right. I think it's a shame.”

This time the man looked up.

”She didn't say anything, intimate anything, I hope?” he hesitated.

”Of course not. It isn't her way. She's--queer for a woman, Elice is; she never gets confidential, no matter how good an opportunity you offer.” A pause followed that spoke volumes. ”Agnes Simpson, though, says there is something the matter--with Steve at least. They're talking about it in the department.”

”Talking about what, Margery?” soberly. ”He's a friend of ours, you know.”

”Yes, I know,” the voice was swift with a pent-up secret, ”and we've tried hard to be nice to him; but, after all, we're not to blame that he--drinks!”

”Margery!” It was open disapproval this time, a thing unusual for Harry Randall. ”We mustn't listen to such gossip, either of us. Steve and I have been chums for years and years and--we simply mustn't listen to such things at all.”

For an instant the girl was silent; then the brown head tossed rebelliously.

”Well, I can't help it if people talk; and it isn't fair of you to suppose that I pa.s.s it on either--except to you. You know that I--” she checked herself. ”It isn't as though Agnes was the only one either,” she defended. ”I've heard it several times lately.” Inspiration came and she looked at her husband directly. ”Honest, Harry, haven't you heard it too?”

The man hesitated, and on the instant solid ground vanished from beneath his feet.

”Yes, I have,” he admitted weakly. ”It's a burning shame too that people will concoct--” He halted suddenly, listening. His eyes went to the clock. ”I had no idea it was so late,” he digressed as the bell rang loudly. ”That's Steve now. I know his ring.”

Alone in the up-stairs study, which with its folding-bed was likewise spare sleeping-room and again smoking-room,--Margery had not yet surrendered to the indiscriminate presence of tobacco smoke,--Steve Armstrong ignored the chair Randall had proffered and remained standing, his hands deep in his trousers' pockets, a look new to his friend--one restless, akin to reckless--on his usually good-humored face. Contrary again to precedent his dress was noticeably untidy, an impression accentuated by a two-days' growth of beard and by neglected linen. That something far from normal was about to transpire Randall knew at a glance, but courteously seemed not to notice. Instead, with a familiar wave, he indicated the cigar-jar he kept on purpose for visitors and took a pipe himself.

”I haven't had my after-dinner smoke yet,” he commented. ”Better light up with me. It always tastes better when one has company.”

”Thanks.” Armstrong made a selection absently and struck a match; but, the unlighted cigar in his fingers, let the match burn dead. ”I don't intend to bother you long,” he plunged without preface. ”I know you want to work.” He glanced nervously at the door to see that it was closed. ”I just wanted to have a little talk with you, a--little heart-to-heart talk.”

”Yes.” Randall's face showed no surprise, but his pipe bowl was aglow and his free hand was caressing his bald spot steadily.

”Frankly, old man,” the other had fallen back into his former position, his hands concealed, his att.i.tude stiffly erect, ”I'm in the deuce of a frame of mind to-night--and undecided.” He laughed shortly. ”You're the remedy that occurred to me.”

”Yes,” Randall repeated, this time with the slow smile, ”I am a sort of remedy. Sit down and tell me about it. I'm receptive at least.”