"About Bob?" said Whitaker importantly. "Quite right. I know him like a book. Astonishingly clever fellow. Great ability. And has a real talent for clothes. No better dressed man in the city. Takes his hints from Europe. They say he has correspondents who keep him posted." The lady who held Whitaker's arm here began to laugh once more. "Oh," she said, "you are overlooking the most interesting thing about him. Please do tell that." "Do you mean the altercation?" asked Whitaker. "To be sure," laughed the lady. "It's so amusing. To think of such a thing happening to Bob Tarrant!" "It seems," said Whitaker, whose manner showed that he scarcely approved of his companion's mirth, "that Tarrant had an encounter a few evenings ago in which he was taken rather by surprise. The story goes that he was engaged in carrying out a matter of some importance when a certain individual--the name has not yet come out--ran counter to him. They tell me that Bob remonstrated with him, but to no purpose. And then, before he quite realized the turn the affair had taken, the person struck him." "Oh, Dick!" pleaded the laughing lady, now laughing more than ever. "Do tell it all! Bob was thrashed," she informed Mrs. King and Anthony. "Soundly thrashed, with his hat all broken and red welts across his face. Thoroughly discomfited, they tell me, and raving with rage. What will he do now?" laughed the lady. "He has been so looked up to by all our youths!" with an arch glance at Whitaker. "So patterned after in all the things that make a man of fashion and spirit! How in the world can he redeem himself?" "Well," said Whitaker, "I suppose it is amusing, if one is inclined to take that view of it. The impulse is to laugh at any awkward thing that happens to one who has carried himself as high as Tarrant. But, at the same time," with a shake of the head, "it may be no laughing matter in the end, for Tarrant, I hear, has spent the last two days at a quiet place up the river with a pair of pistols, improving his eye." The jolly lady ceased laughing; Mrs. King looked grave. "Oh, no!" said she. "I'm afraid it's true," said Whitaker. "He's of that fashion and has winged his man a dozen times or more." "But the law," said Mrs. King. "Of course," said the dandy. "There is one. But who would dare appeal to it?" When they had taken their leave of Mrs. Newell a little later, Whitaker hooked his arm into Anthony's as they turned out of the little court. "Tarrant will have this fellow's blood," said he. "It will be the regulation number of paces, a quick exchange, and then God send the poor devil a good surgeon!" Anthony said nothing, and so Whitaker's mind turned to a matter of more immediate moment. "I'm supping at the Crooked Billet to-night," said he. "If you have nothing urgent to occupy you, suppose you join me. It's an excellent place. Their venison pie is famous." Anthony gave cordial agreement to this, and the two, still arm in arm, strolled toward the river.