rdence, and it'll get you in trouble. Are you going
to use names in that novel of yours?"

"Certainly not. Do you think I do not know my art? But you recognize
Tate? Then he lives!"

"Good Lord! Know him? How under the everlasting firmament could I help
knowing him? What other proprietor is there in St. Ange, you comical
little bag of words? specially one as demoralizes the community with
poisoned whiskey and doctored beer? Balls of fire! but this beats the
band. Go on; go on."

When a man of thirty steps out of a starved exile and comes in contact
with a girl like Constance Drew, it may be dangerous to "go on," but the
exile will certainly _want_ to.

Nothing loath; all sparkling and radiant, Constance swept along.

"And I've got--you, but maybe you will never forgive me. I took you at
your--your worst--for don't you see when I use you--later--I'm going to
redeem you and have you come out truly splendid."

Jock's jaw dropped, and the laugh fled from his overflowing eyes.

"Me?" he gasped. Constance nodded, and waved a pointed pencil toward
him.

"Wait!" she ran her eye down the page. "'Beautiful woman--with
a--Past'--that's the girl up in the other Masquerader's shack, that girl
Joyce, you know, and Gaston--and here's Peggy Falstar--'woman sunk to
man's level and reproducing her kind'--brief note of Billy Falstar as
'impish child'--oh! here you are!

"'Village Bacchus. Tall, handsome, but lost, apparently, to shame.
Swaggering criss-cross down the road, laughing senselessly and shouting
songs. Slave to appetite. Controlled by his brutal passions. When spoken
to in this state, assumes manner of gentleman. Subconscious self--study
in heredity.--Let a strong influence enter his life--handsome noble
girl--redemption at end--splendid character.'"

"Good God!"

Constance dropped the book. The eyes that met her own had a look in
them that drove the cold, which she had not felt before, to her very
heart.

"What--what--is the matter?" she gasped.

"Did you--ever see me--like that?" The words came hoarsely.

"Yes. One day a few weeks ago. Ralph wanted you. I went to find
you--and"--the girl's eyes dropped. She felt a sudden humiliation as if
he had detected her reading his private letters.

"And I talked--rot and all the rest?"

"Yes. I never told Ralph; I knew it would hurt him--I had--no right to
tell you this--it is only--copy for me."

"Copy?"

"Yes; stuff to work into the--novel."

"The novel? Ah,