e brutal way you talk!" Leaning on the balustrade
and looking into the dark depths below, he lapsed into a sullen
silence.

Brockton approached him.

"But you've got to stand it," he said. "The truth is never gentle. Most
conditions in life are unpleasant, and if you want to meet them
squarely, you have got to realize the unpleasant point of view. That's
the only way you can fight them and win!"

Madison turned around. The rage was gone out of his eyes, and his voice
had regained its equanimity. Decisively he said:

"I believe Laura means what she says, in spite of all you say and the
disagreeable logic of it. I think she loves me. If she should ever want
to go back to the old way of getting along, I think she'd tell me so.
So you see, Brockton, all your talk is wasted, and we'll drop the
subject."

Crossing to the other side of the terrace, he dropped into a chair, and
lit another cigar. Brockton followed him.

"And if she should ever go back and come to me," said the broker slowly
and impressively, "I am going to insist that she let you know all about
it. It'll be hard enough to lose her, caring for her the way you do,
but it would hurt a lot more to be double crossed----"

Madison laughed scornfully.

"That's very kind. Thanks!"

"Don't get sore," said Brockton. "It's common sense, and it goes, does
it not?"

"Just what goes?" demanded the journalist, turning sharply.

Brockton eyed him gravely for a second or two; then he said slowly:

"If she leaves you first, you are to tell me, and if she comes to me,
I'll make her let you know just when and why----"

A fierce flame again blazed out from the big fellow's eyes. He half
started from his chair, and he flung his fist out threateningly.

"Look out!" he cried.

"I said 'common sense,'" rejoined Brockton quietly.

"All right," replied his rival, more calmly.

"Agreed?" demanded the broker.

"You're on," muttered Madison.

CHAPTER IX.

The Rialto, flooded with the warm sunshine of a glorious spring morning,
presented its every-day aspect of leisurely gaiety and business bustle.
The theatrical season was already on the wane; each day Broadway's
pavements in the immediate vicinity of Forty-second Street became more
congested with lean-looking thespians, just in from "the road." The
Rialto--the haven of every disheartened barnstormer, the cradle of
every would-be Hamlet! An important section of the big town's
commercial life, yet a world a