hatred. "Oh, Barbs, Barbs, what a
wrong-headed little darling you are!" But he added: "And Lord, what a
talent she's got!"

Blizzard was not in his office. But he was upstairs and expected Mr.
Allen.

A girl who had been wonderfully pretty told Wilmot these things. She
would have been wonderfully pretty still, for she was very young, if she
had not looked so tired, so unhappy, so broken-spirited. Did Rose still
love the man for whom she had betrayed her friends and her own better
nature? Yes. But she had learned that she was no more to him than a
plaything--to caress or to break as seemed most amusing to him. At first
until the novelty of her had worn off he had shown her a sufficiency of
brusque tenderness. Latterly as his great plans matured he had been all
brute. Sometimes he made her feel that he was so surfeited with her love
that he considered killing her.

Sideways, with eyes haunted by shame and tragedy, she gave the handsome
bearded youth a look of compassion. "In here, please," she said.

The door closed behind Wilmot with an ominous click, and he found
himself face to face with the legless beggar. In this one's eyes, seen
above a table littered with pamphlets and writings, was none of that
mock affability to which he had formerly treated Wilmot Allen. He looked
angry, dangerous, poisonous. And he broke into a harsh, ugly laugh.

"It takes you," he said, "to rush in where angels fear to tread. Welcome
to my parlor! What a fool! My God! You heard what Harry West had to say
before he died, and you came straight here."

"I don't know how you know it. But I did talk to your son. I did hear
what he said. And I came here to tell you. And to tell you that there
will be no more dealings between us. I am going straight from here to
tell the proper authorities what I know."

"Aren't you going to punch my face first? That's what you'd like to do.
It's in your eyes. But you're afraid."

"I am not afraid," said Wilmot, "and you know it."

For answer the legless man picked up a silver dollar from among the
papers in front of him, and broke it savagely into four pieces.
"Afraid!" he said. "Afraid! Afraid!"

Wilmot took a step forward. "It would give me the greatest pleasure," he
said quietly, "to knock your head off. Unfortunately you are a cripple."

Blizzard said nothing, and presently, white with anger and contempt,
Wilmot turned and tried the handle of the door by which he had entered.
Blizzard laughed.