Staggered by the situation, Fairfax thought desperately and murmured something which sounded like "Oochee-Goochee," as he tried to recall it later. The girl's gay voice went on: "It would be wicked to waste the tickets. City people aren't going to the theater as late as this, so we won't see any one we know. I think it's a dispensation of Providence, and I'd be a poor-spirited mouse to waste the chance. I think I'll go with you--don't you?" [Illustration: "Could he--couldn't he?"] Could he leave that prostrate form on the truck and snatch at this bit of heaven dangling before him? Could he--Couldn't he? No, he could not. It would be a question of fifteen minutes perhaps before the drowsy Billy would be marching to the police station, and in his entirely casual and fearless state of mind, the big athlete would make history for some policeman, his friend could not doubt, before he got there. Rex had put his hand to this intoxicated plow and he must not look back, even when the prospect backwards was so bewilderingly attractive, so tantalizingly easy. He stammered badly when, at length, the silence which followed the soft voice had to be filled. "I'm simply--simply--broken up, Miss Margery," and the girl's eyes looked at him with a sweet wideness that made it harder. "I don't know how to tell you, and I don't know how to resign myself to it either, but I--I can't take you to the theater. I--I've got to--got to--well, you see, I've got to be with Billy." She spoke quickly at that. "Mr. Fairfax, is Billy really ill--is there something more than I understand? Why didn't you tell me? Has their been an accident, perhaps? Why, I must go to him too--come--hurry--I'll go with you, of course." Rex stumbled again in his effort to quiet her alarm, to prevent this scheme of seeking Billy on his couch of pain. "Oh no, indeed you mustn't do that," he objected strenuously. "I couldn't let you, you know. I don't want you to be bothered. Billy isn't ill at all--there hasn't been any accident, I give you my word. He's all right--Billy's all right." He had quite lost his prospective by now, and did not see the rocks upon which he rushed. "If Billy's all right, why isn't he here?" demanded Billy's cousin severely. Rex saw now. "He isn't exactly--that is to say--all right, you know. You see how it is," and he gazed involuntarily at the sleeping giant huddled on the truck. "I do not see." The brown eyes had never looked at him so coldly before, and their expression cut him. "I'm glad you don't," he cried, and realized that the words had taken him a step deeper into trouble. "It's just this way, Miss Margery--Billy isn't hurt or ill, but he isn't--isn't feeling quite himself, and--and I've got to--I've got to be with him." His voice sounded as if he were going to cry, but it moved the girl to no pity.