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"Don't you try to interfere with me," said the man who paid the telephone bill. "I'll not submit to such an indignity." "I'm not the only one that interferes. You fixed up quite an entertainment for me the other night, didn't you? Wouldn't you kinda call that interferin' some? I sure ought to comb yore hair for it." Bromfield made a hasty decision to get out. He started for the door.

"Bromfield," she said, after a moment of troubled silence, "I have been thinking over your plan, and I don't see why it isn't the right thing." "What is my plan?" inquired Bromfield Corey. "A dinner." Her husband began to laugh. "Ah, you overdid the accusing-spirit business, and this is reparation." But Mrs. Corey hurried on, with combined dignity and anxiety

Perhaps they will neutralise each other." "Yes, there is another daughter," assented Mrs. Corey. "I don't see how you can joke about such things, Bromfield," she added. "Well, I don't either, my dear, to tell you the truth. My hardihood surprises me. Here is a son of mine whom I see reduced to making his living by a shrinkage in values.

Had Durand some card up his sleeve? Was he using him as a catspaw to rake in his own chestnuts? Clarendon Bromfield began to weaken. He and Clay were the only two men in the room in evening clothes. His questing eye fell on tough, scarred faces that offered his fears no reassurance. Any one or all of them might be agents of Durand.

Football, boxing and concerts, not to mention dancing, filled our spare time, and there was the famous race which ended: BOB, Major Toller, a, 1., BERLIN, Capt. Bromfield, a, 2. And we are not forgetting that it was at Sawbridgeworth that we ate our first Christmas war dinner. Never was such a feed.

There was this comfort for her always in Bromfield Corey, that he never was much surprised at anything, however shocking or painful. His standpoint in regard to most matters was that of the sympathetic humorist who would be glad to have the victim of circumstance laugh with him, but was not too much vexed when the victim could not.

"Either he misunderstood me or he's distorting the facts," claimed the clubman with an assumption of boldness. "That ought to be easy to prove. We'll make an appointment with him for this afternoon and check up by the dictagraph." Bromfield laughed uneasily. "Is that necessary, Mr. Whitford? Surely my word is good. I have the honor to tell you that I did nothing discreditable."

Though the story had not come at first hand, she believed it was true, and thought from her knowledge of him that the man would weaken under a mild third degree. Clay summed up in a sentence the result of all the evidence they had collected. "It's not any longer a question of whether Bromfield goes to prison, but of Durand. The fellow has sure overplayed his hand."

"I don't believe they have the habit of wine at table. I suspect that when they don't drink tea and coffee with their dinner they drink ice-water." "Horrible!" said Bromfield Corey. "It appears to me that this defines them."

"A short engagement," he ventured. "Yes," she nodded. "And take me away for a while. I'm tired of New York, I think." "I'll take you to a place where the paths are primrose-strewn and where nightingales sing," he promised rashly. She smiled incredulously, a wise old little smile that had no right on her young face. The report of the engagement spread at once. Bromfield took care of that.