he lock. Cosden watched him with an
interest far deeper than curiosity, for he felt from his friend's
manner that the turning of the key unlocked something within him which
until that moment had been closely hidden.

"It will be better to get it out of my system," Huntington said finally,
after bringing all the accessories together.--"You never knew of my
romance, did you?"

"Never," Cosden acknowledged; "I supposed you were the one man who had
passed through life unscathed."

"I couldn't have told you of it before because you wouldn't have
understood, but now you will appreciate matters better if you know the
facts.--Do you remember my surprise when you first mentioned the name of
Marian Thatcher?"

"Why, yes; you asked if she was a widow."

"Exactly. Mrs. Thatcher was Marian Seymour when I first met her, my
senior year at college. There is no need to go into particulars; the
fact remains that I was hard hit.--Look at these!"

He pulled out the drawer and laid the various exhibits on the top of the
table. Cosden leaned forward and gingerly lifted the long white glove,
looking into Huntington's face with a curious expression as he did so.
Huntington met his gaze squarely, nodding his head in affirmation of the
unasked question.

"What's this?" Cosden demanded, laying down the glove and picking up the
slipper.

"You see," was the unabashed reply; "it went as deep as that. Laugh if
you like; I sha'n't mind. We'll clean up this whole business to-night,
and the more ridiculous you make it the shorter work it will be."

"I would have laughed a month ago," Cosden admitted; "but, as you say, I
understand some things now that I didn't before. Every man has a
right to a romance, and he's entitled to have it respected."

"Thanks, dear boy; but romances don't belong to five-and-forty, and this
farce has gone far enough. Now we'll watch it go up in smoke, as most
romances do. But first let us pay it befitting honor."

Dixon appeared in response to the bell.

"A bottle of Moet & Chandon, '98," Huntington ordered.

During the time required by Dixon the two men puffed silently at their
cigars. Huntington feared lest some inopportune word might disturb the
success of his stratagem; Cosden, believing that he was witnessing the
final act in the tragedy of his friend's life, respected the solemnity
of the occasion.

"Now, Connie," Huntington rose with the glass in his hand, "I ask you to
drink to the dearest girl in the