Gregg had risen from his chair and stood facing the speaker, his brown eyes flashing, his lips quivering. The talk had drifted in a direction that set his blood to tingling. "You tell me that Hartman has at last run away with Mrs. Bowdoin!" he exclaimed angrily, his voice rising in intensity as he proceeded. "Has he finally turned scoundrel and made an outcast of himself and of her? I have been expecting something of the kind ever since I saw him in Bowdoin's studio at his last reception. And do you really mean to tell me that he has actually run off with her?" "Well, not exactly run off--she's gone to her mother. She's only half Bowdoin's age, you know. Hartman, of course, pooh-poohs the whole thing." "And he's Bowdoin's friend, I suppose you know!" Gregg continued in a restrained, incisive tone. "Yes, certainly, studied with him; that's where he met her so often." Gregg began pacing the floor. Stopping short in his walk he turned and faced the group about the fire: "Does he realize," he burst out in a voice that rang through the room and fastened every eye upon him--"what his cowardly weakness will bring him? The misery it will entail; the sleepless nights, the fear, the remorse that will follow? The outrage on Bowdoin's home, on his children? Has he thought of the humiliation of the man deserted--the degradation of the man who caused it? Does he know what it is to live a life where every decent woman brands you as a scoundrel, and every decent man looks upon you as a thief?" The outburst astounded the room. One or two arose from their chairs and stood looking at him in amazement. Gregg was often outspoken; right was right with him, and wrong was wrong, and he never minced matters. They loved him for his frankness and courage, but this outbreak seemed entirely uncalled for by anything that had been said or done. Surely there must be a personal side to his attitude. Had any friend of his any such experience that he should explode so suddenly? What made it all the more unaccountable was that he never talked gossip, and never allowed any man to speak ill of a friend in his presence, no matter what the cause--and Hartman was his friend. Why, then, should he pounce upon him without proof of any kind other than the gossip of the studios? "Well, my dear Gregg, don't blame me," laughed the painter who had borne the brunt of the outbreak and whom Adam had singled out to listen to his attack. "I haven't run off with pretty Mrs. Bowdoin, or made love to her either, have I?" "But you still shake hands with Hartman, don't you?" "Of course I do. I couldn't show him the door, could I? He's made an ass of himself, but it's none of my business. They'll have to patch it up between them. Don't get excited, Gregg, and don't forget that the jury meets this afternoon at four o'clock in my studio." "I will be there," replied Adam curtly, "but I cannot stay very long. I have an appointment at four." * * * * *