ishings, but nowhere did he find an
answer to his unspoken question, until his eye lighted on a box of rouge
under the electric lamp on her bed stand.

"Don't use that," he said, touching the box.

"You know I detest make-up."

"Oh, that!" She turned to see what he was talking about. "That rouge
belongs to Margaret Brewster."

McIntyre promptly changed the conversation. "Have you had your
breakfast?" he asked.

"Yes; Grimes took the tray down some time ago." Helen watched her
father fidget with his watch fob for several minutes, then asked with
characteristic directness. "What do you wish?"

"To see that you have proper medical attention if you are ill," he
returned promptly. "How would a week or ten days at Atlantic City suit
you and Barbara?"

"Not at all." Helen sat up from her reclining position on the pillows.
"You forget, father, that we have a house-guest; Margaret Brewster is
not leaving until May."

"I had not forgotten," curtly. "I propose that she go with us."

A faint "Oh!" escaped Helen, otherwise she made no comment, and
McIntyre, after contemplating her for a minute, looked away.

"Either go to Atlantic City with us, Helen, or resume your normal,
everyday life," he said shortly. "I am tired of heroics; Jimmie Turnbull
was hardly the man to inspire them."

"Stop!" Helen's voice rang out imperiously. "I will not permit one word
said in disparagement of Jimmie, least of all from you, father. Wait,"
as he attempted to speak. "I do not know what traits of character I
may have inherited from you, but I have all mother's loyalty, and--that
loyalty belongs to Jimmie."

McIntyre's eyes shifted under her gaze.

"I regret very much this obsession," he said rising. "I will not attempt
to reason with you again, Helen, but"--he made no effort to lower his
voice, "the world--our world will soon know what manner of man James
Turnbull was, of that I am determined."

"And I"--Helen faced her father proudly--"I will leave no stone unturned
to defend his memory."

Her father wheeled about. "In doing so, see that you do not compromise
yourself," he remarked coldly, and before the infuriated girl could
answer, he slammed the door shut and stalked downstairs.

Some half hour later he opened the door of Rochester and Kent's law
office and would have walked unceremoniously into Kent's private office
had not John Sylvester stepped forward from behind his desk in the
corner.

"Good morning, Colonel," he said