rry's car."

"That's right," admitted Garrigan. "Is it true what I've heard about
both of them-that each hopes to place the diamond hoop of proprietorship
on the fair Viola?"

"I guess if you've heard that they're both trying for her, it's true
enough," answered Sharwell. "And it also happens, if that old lady, Mrs.
G. 0. 5. Sipp, is to be believed, that there, also, the captain has the
advantage."

"How's that? I thought Harry had made a tidy sum on that ship-building
project he put through."

"He did, but it seems that he and his family have a penchant for doing
that sort of thing, and, some years ago, in one of the big mergers in
which his family took a prominent part, they, or some one connected with
them, pinched the Honorable Horace Carwell so that he squealed for mercy
like a lamb led to the Wall street slaughter house."

"So that's the game, is it?"

"Yes. And ever since then, though Viola Carwell has been just as nice
to Harry as she has to Gerry--as far as any one can tell-there has been
talk that Harry is persona non grata as far as her father goes. He never
forgives any business beat, I understand."

"Was it anything serious?" asked Garrigan, as they watched the racing
automobiles swing around the turn of the road that led to the clubhouse.

"I don't know the particulars. It was before my time--I mean before I
paid much attention to business."

"Rot! You don't now. You only think you do. But I'm interested. I expect
to have some business dealing with Carwell myself, and if I could get a
line--"

"Sorry, but I can't help you out, old man. Better see Harry. He
knows the whole story, and he insists that it was all straight on his
relatives' part. But it's like shaking a mince pie at a Thanksgiving
turkey to mention the matter to Carwell. He hasn't gone so far as to
forbid Harry the house, but there's a bit of coldness just the same."

"I see. And that's why the captain has the inside edge on the love game.
Well, Miss Carwell has a mind of her own, I fancy."

"Indeed she has! She's more like her mother used to be. I remember Mrs.
Carwell when I was a boy. She was a dear, somewhat conventional lady.
How she ever came to take up with the sporty Horace, or he with her, was
a seven-days' wonder. But they lived happily, I believe."

"Then Mrs. Carwell is dead?"

"Oh, yes-some years. Mr. Carwell's sister, Miss Mary, keeps The Haven up
to date for him. You've been there?"

"Once, at a reception. I'm