ts is good enough for me."

"Don't tempt me, Jimmie, don't tempt me," pleaded Garrison again. "You
don't know what it all means. I may be his nephew. I may be--God grant I
am! But I must be honest. I must be honest."

"Well, I'm going to hunt up that lawyer, Snark," affirmed Drake finally.
"I won't rest until I see this thing through. Snark may have known all
along you were the rightful heir, and merely put up a job to get a pile
out of you when you came into the estate. Or he may have been honest in
his dishonesty; may not have known. But I'm going to rustle round after
him. Maybe there's proofs he holds. What about Major Calvert? Are you
going to write him?"

Garrison considered. "No--no," he said at length. "No, if--if by any
chance I am his nephew--you see how I want to believe you, Jimmie, God
knows how much--then I'll tell him afterward. Afterward when--I'm clean.
I want to lie low; to square myself in my own sight and man's. I want to
make another name for myself, Jimmie. I want to start all over and shame
no man. If by any chance I am William C. Dagget, then--then I want to
be worthy of that name. And I owe everything to Garrison. I'm going
to clean that name. It meant something once--and it'll mean something
again."

"I believe you, kid."

Subsequently, Drake fulfilled his word concerning the "rustling round"
after that eminent lawyer, Theobald D. Snark. His efforts met with
failure. Probably the eminent lawyer's business had increased so
enormously that he had been compelled to vacate the niche he held in the
Nassau Street bookcase. But Drake had not given up the fight.

Meanwhile Garrison had commenced his life of regeneration at the
turfman's Long Island stable. He was to ride Speedaway in the coming
Carter Handicap. The event that had seen him go down, down to oblivion
one year ago might herald the reascendency of his star. He had vowed it
would. And so in grim silence he prepared for his farewell appearance in
that great seriocomic tragedy of life called "Making Good."

CHAPTER XIV.

GARRISON FINDS HIMSELF.

Sue never rightly remembered how the two months passed; the two months
succeeding that hideous night when in paralyzed silence she watched
Garrison away. The greatest sorrow is stagnant, not active. The heart
becomes like a frozen morass. Sometimes memory slips through the crust,
only to sink in the grim "slough of despond."

Waterbury's death had unnerved her, coming as it did at a tim