"Very well," said Armstrong quietly. "I'll remember the warning, Dot. More than that, I can't say now. I need Mac now more than ever, and can't afford to break with him. But I'll remember your words." As she met her husband's intent gaze, Dorothy shivered slightly. Perhaps she realized how terribly unreasonable and baseless was her charge; perhaps she realized that Armstrong could not receive it as she imparted it--that he could not feel her aversion for Macgowan. She knew that her warning was futile. "Very well, dear,"' she said, and forced a smile to her lips. "Did I startle you?" Armstrong nodded, gravely searching her face. "Yes, Dot. I've never thought of Mac except as a trusted confidant, a friend who would never fail me." "There's only one person who'll never fail you, dear," she murmured, then started at a sound from below. "Oh--mother's home! Don't tell them about Jimmy Wren's news. It would only worry them--" "Then pay me for my silence," exclaimed Armstrong happily. Dorothy felt again that her warning had been useless. And she was right. As he went downstairs, Armstrong was thinking only of Findlater--and the following Wednesday. BOOK II "HE WHO DID EAT OF MY BREAD" CHAPTER I Mrs. Bird Fowler's apartment reflected, in a high degree, the personality and beauty of its occupant. The large living room was chastely but exquisitely furnished in suspiciously solid mahogany which had, of course, belonged to Mrs. Fowler's great-grandmother. A portrait of the great-grandmother hung over the black marble mantel. Mrs. Fowler's resemblance to that long-dead belle of the blue-grass was quite remarkable; the same sweetly curving features, the same Grecian profile, so purely drawn as to seem chiseled, the same rare hazel eyes and delicately rippling brown hair. Jimmy Wren thought of this resemblance as he looked up at the portrait and waited. Mrs. Fowler had been summoned to the telephone. He glanced around, relaxing in the beauty and soft luxury of the room; the invisible lighting over piano and music cabinet, the quiet tones of walls and hangings and curtains, the few but excellent pictures. There was not a book in the room. This was a point, however, of which the usual guests were quite oblivious. Jimmy glanced up eagerly as his hostess appeared. She wore white, as she usually did; and even now, on Christmas night, she wore it with flawless taste and distinction that set off the clear beauty of face and figure. She came and sat beside him, on the lounge that faced the fireplace, and stretched forth a hand to the smoking stand. "You'll not change your mind?" asked Jimmy Wren pleadingly. "Dear Jimmy, I can't!" she responded, after lighting her cigarette and sinking back among the cushions. "And you may stay just half an hour and no more. I have my packing to do, and the train goes at midnight, you know." "You'll let me see you off, anyhow?"