whatever to do with race prejudice.

They could not understand how a southerner and an ex-Confederate soldier
could thus have taken the part of a "nigger" against "respectable white
boys." Others who were clamorous for the "rights of the negro," rejoiced
in Duncan as a convert to their doctrine.

Both were wrong, of course. Neither in the remotest way recognized the
real impulses of his act, namely, the impulse to protect a woman and the
impulse of a law-loving citizen to insist upon the equal enforcement of
the law, for the sake of good order in the community. But Duncan
concerned himself with none of these things. He had done his simple duty
as a man and as a citizen, and he had no care whatever for consequences.

And yet the consequences were such as vitally affected his entire career
in more ways than one. His performance brought him, for one thing, into
close acquaintance with a certain young woman whom he had scarcely known
before, and whose destiny it was to influence the entire future course
of his life.

It was Duncan's habit to sit long and smoke over his final cup of coffee
at the evening meal. The other table boarders were accustomed to hurry
away as soon as they had swallowed their supper, leaving him in sole
possession of the dining room.

On the evening of the day on which the events already related occurred,
he sat as usual, smoking, sipping his coffee, and reading Ober's evening
newspaper. Presently Barbara Verne entered, and with a manner in which
extreme shyness was mingled with a resolute determination to do the duty
that lay before her, approached young Duncan and held out her hand. As
he rose deferentially to greet her, taking her proffered hand in his,
the girl said:

"I've come to thank you, Mr. Duncan. It was very kind of you--to protect
Robert, you know--and me. I'm Barbara Verne. Thank you, ever so much."

As she made her little speech the brave but timid girl looked him in the
eyes with the embarrassed front of a child set to do a duty, mingled
with the calm composure of a woman who knows and cherishes the dignity
of her womanhood.

Duncan protested that no thanks were due him for doing his simple duty,
and, after a word or two more, the girl quitted the room, while Duncan,
gallantly bowing, held the door open for her.

The little interview lasted for less than two minutes, and not an
unnecessary word was spoken on either side. Yet it seemed to Duncan an
event of consequence, as ind