re
older."

"Why?" asked Vera.

"Because," said the young man, "I'd like to talk to you--like a father."

Vera turned and smiled on him securely, with frank friendliness. "Go
ahead," she assented, "talk to me like a father."

Winthrop smiled back at her, and then frowned.

"You shouldn't be in this business," he said.

The girl regarded him steadily.

"What's the matter with the business?" she asked.

Winthrop felt she had put him upon the defensive, but he did not
hesitate.

"Well," he said, "there may be some truth in it. But we don't know
that. We do know that there's a lot of fraud and deceit in it. Now," he
declared warmly, "there's nothing deceitful about you. You're fine," he
cried enthusiastically, "you're big! That boy who was in here told me
one story about you that showed--"

Vera stopped him sharply.

"What do you know of me?" she asked bitterly. "The first time you ever
saw me I was in a police court; and this morning--you heard that man
threaten to put me in jail--"

In turn, by abruptly rising from his chair, Winthrop interrupted her.
He pushed the chair out of his way, and, shoving his hands into his
trousers' pockets, began pacing with long, quick strides up and down the
room. "What do I care for that?" he cried contemptuously. He tossed the
words at her over his shoulder. "I put lots of people in jail myself
that are better than I am. Only, they won't play the game." He halted,
and turned on her. "Now, you're not playing the game. This is a mean
business, taking money from silly girls and old men. You're too good
for that." He halted at the table and stood facing her. "I've got two
sisters uptown," he said. He spoke commandingly, peremptorily. "And
tomorrow I am going to take you to see them. And we fellow townsmen," he
smiled at her appealingly, "will talk this over, and we'll make you come
back to your own people."

For a moment the two regarded each other. Then the girl answered firmly,
but with a slight hoarseness in her voice, and in a tone hardly louder
than a whisper:

"You know I can't do that!"

"I don't!" blustered Winthrop. "Why not?"

"Because," said the girl steadily, "of what I did in Geneva." As
though the answer was the one he had feared, the man exclaimed sharply,
rebelliously.

"Nonsense!" he cried. "You didn't know what you were doing. No decent
person would consider that."

"They do," said the girl, "they are the very ones who do. And--it's been
in the pape