He searched and found a water decanter and a glass. She seemed too weak to sit up, so he helped her by placing one arm under her head. She sipped the liquid and looked into his eyes. Then to his utter amazement she clasped both her arms round his neck and pulled his face close to hers. "Hell!" he muttered. "I love you!" she said. "Don't you see I----" "Say, you're bad!" he said. "Drink some more water----" He strove to free himself, but finding he could only do so by hurting her, refrained, and tried to bring her to her senses. Undoubtedly she had suddenly gone mad! The ingenuous Jim could find no other solution. He was telling her to "be a good kid" and not "to get fresh," when the door opened and slammed. He looked round to find a tall dark man, in evening dress, surveying him fiercely. "Good-evening," said the stranger cuttingly. Jim broke away and faced the latter. "Who in hell are you?" "Ask her." Jim turned to Edith. She seemed strangely perturbed. "My--my husband!" "Wal, I'm glad to meet you," said Jim coolly. "Your wife had a fit or something, so I jest brought her along. I guess I'll be mushing." To his amazement the man barred his path. "A nice story," he said. The eyes of Colorado Jim narrowed to the merest slits. He turned to the woman. "Tell him!" he growled. She shrunk before those terrible eyes of his, and gripped the pillow with nerveless hands. Her lips opened but she said nothing. Jim started, and then caught her by the shoulder. "Did you git me? He's wanting to know why I'm here. Tell him." "How can I tell him?" she wailed. The man laughed. "You needn't waste breath. So this is how Mr. James Conlan spends his time. It'll make a fine story...." Jim's brain was working fast; but he was slow in the uptake in such circumstances as this. The woman had seemed so genuine. Why did she maintain silence? It was a novel experience in his life. All the ways of this strange city were foreign to him. The man's voice broke in: "A fine story it will make in the press." "Eh----!" "The morals of a millionaire." "Eh!" growled Jim again. "Maybe you wouldn't like this to appear in print?..." And then Jim saw it all. It was like a story from a magazine. He had never believed those things could be true. But here it was in real life. A frame-up--a dirty piece of blackmail. "Can't we come to terms, Mr. Conlan...." The suave voice got no farther than that. He saw six-feet-odd of bone and muscle rear up like a piece of steel and descend on him. A great hard hand caught him by the neck and bounced him up and down the room. "You swab! You tinhorn! I've manured a potato patch with better stuff, by Gawd! And she's your wife, you dirty trash! She ain't your wife--no, sir. I savvy what she is. Suffering rattlesnakes! I'm waitin' to hear about it. When did you frame to put this over me? Talk up or I'll yank you outer the window into the street." "Damn you--let me go!" "I'll 'damn you,' you muck! Take that!"