e early convent training and the Old
Kentucky Home and agree that they are pleasant fictions, like the
estate which you are in such imminent danger of inheriting. Those, I'm
sure you will admit, are entirely imaginary." Buddy Briskow's swollen
eyelids opened wider, his tumid lips parted, and an expression of
surprise spread over his dropsical countenance.

"Step on it," sneered Miss Montague. "Dish the dirt!"

"Buddy's belief, however, that your stage career was blasted and your
young life laid waste by the scion of a rich New York house should, in
the interests of truth, be corrected."

"He knows I was married."

"True. But not to Bennie Fulton, the jockey."

"That is a--lie!"

"Nor that the estimable Mr. Fulton, instead of perishing upon the field
of glory, dodged the draft and is doing as well as could be expected of
a jockey who has been ruled off every track in the country, and is now
a common gambler against whom the finger of suspicion is leveled--"

"It's a lie!" the woman stormed. Of Buddy she inquired: "You don't
believe that, do you? You don't intend to listen to that sort of stuff?"

The object of this appeal was torn by conflicting emotions. Doubt is a
weed that sprouts fastest in dull minds; suspicion is the ready armor
of ignorance; to young Briskow came the unwelcome vision of those oil
wells. Was Gray telling the truth? Could it be that Arline had made a
fool of him? But no, she was smaller, prettier, more adorable than
ever, now that she was whipped by this gale of anger, and a girl like
that could not be a deceiver. Buddy longed desperately to believe her
refutation of the charge. He closed his eyes and made himself believe.

"Even now," Gray was saying, "if you would tell the boy all he ought to
know, I would take myself off and have nothing more to say."

"You-you make me _sick!_" Miss Montague cried, vibrantly. "What right
have _you_ to preach? What kind of a man are you? If he believed your
lies for a minute I'd never want to see him again. He has been a true
friend to me"--her voice quavered, caught in her throat--"the only true
friend I ever had. _I_ don't care whether he's rich or poor, but men
like you are all alike. What chance has a girl got against you? You
want to use his money, so you p-poison his mind--break a woman's
heart--just b-because you--hate me." The last words were sobbed forth.
Miss Montague broke down.

"Hell!" hoarsely exclaimed young Briskow. "You're makin' her c