The winter of Dorothy's discontent and unrest, however, was ushered in with the dinner dance at the Country Club. It was Friday night, with Christmas only a day away. The club was in gala dress, with fireplaces blazing merrily, a "string band" of darkies whose music made the toes tingle, a huge tree, and a repast to make Epicurus envious. In the course of the evening, Dorothy was captured by one Joel Giddings, an antique beau who was very deaf, and whose dancing was execrable. Being quite accustomed to requests that he "sit out" a dance, Giddings yielded amiably to Dorothy's wishes and guided her to a very secluded nook behind the Christmas tree. They sat there, almost hidden from sight, while Giddings rattled on about nothing. Then, as Dorothy listened, she heard another voice--a voice which came from close by, although the glittering tree hid the speaker from sight. "Armstrong doesn't worry much about showing up here," it said. "I suppose he figures that nobody knows just how he got control of Food Products, anyhow! What I can't understand is why Deming endures him, after the way he chucked Deming out of his own business!" Dorothy felt the red come flooding into her cheeks, while Joel Giddings rattled obliviously along. She did not need to seek, to know that the voice belonged to Ried Williams. After some inaudible response, it came again, fairly burning into her. "Perhaps Deming never suspected--there was a good deal he didn't know about the frame-up that Armstrong put over. I shouldn't wonder if he still thinks Armstrong was his best friend that day! It was the same day of Dorothy's wedding, you know. The whole affair was mighty cleverly done, if you ask me! No, of course she never knew anything about it; Armstrong kept the machinery all out of sight. He sure did have it running smooth, too." The voice died away, as the speaker moved off. Dorothy leaned forward to see with whom Williams had been talking, but she was too late. Here, then, was the old dreadful thought actually put into words! She had never entertained a definite suspicion, despite Macgowan's words to her before the wedding. She had never even dared to think of such a thing as had now been bluntly laid before her mind. Her first impulse was to seek Williams, denounce him as a liar, publicly settle this calumny before every one. The fact that his hatred of Armstrong still persisted, for all his hypocritical friendliness, infuriated her. The impulse was swiftly killed. Doubt killed it; her first doubt of her husband.