For a few minutes Simmy watched this dark sentinel, and reflected. What was he doing over there? What was he up to? Was he waiting for Lutie to come forth from the fortified place? Was there murder and self-murder in the heart of this unhappy boy? Simmy was a little man but he was no coward. He did not hesitate long. He would have to act, and act promptly. He did not dare go away while that menacing figure remained on guard. The police, no doubt, would drive him away in time, but he would come back again. So Simmy Dodge squared his shoulders and marched across the street, to face what might turn out to be a ruthless lunatic—the kind one reads about, who kill their best friends, "and all that sort of thing." It was quite apparent that the watcher had been observing him. As Simmy came briskly across the street, Tresslyn moved out of his position near the awning and started westward, his shoulders hunched upward and his chin lowered with the evident desire to prevent recognition. Simmy called out to him. The other quickened his steps. He slouched but did not stagger, a circumstance which caused Simmy a sharp twinge of uneasiness. He was not intoxicated. Simmy's good sense told him that he would be more dangerous sober than drunk, but he did not falter. At the second shout, young Tresslyn stopped. His hands were thrust deep into his overcoat pockets. "What do you want?" he demanded thickly, as the dapper little man came up and extended his hand. Simmy was beaming, as if he suddenly had found a long lost friend and comrade. George took no notice of the friendly hand. He was staring hard, almost savagely at the other's face. Simmy was surprised to find that his cheeks, though sunken and haggard, were cleanly shaved, and his general appearance far from unprepossessing. In the light from a near-by window, the face was lowering but not inflamed; the eyes were heavy and tired-looking—but not bloodshot. "I thought I recognised you," said Simmy glibly. "Much obliged," said George, without the semblance of a smile. Simmy hesitated. Then he laid his hand on George's arm. "See here, George, this will not do. I think I know why you are here, and—it won't do, old chap." "If you were anybody else, Dodge, I'd beat your head off," said George slowly, as if amazed that he had not already done so. "Better go away, Simmy, and let me alone. I'm all right. I'm not doing any harm, am I, standing out here?" "What do you gain by standing here in the cold and—" "Never mind what I gain. That's my affair," said George, his voice shaking in spite of its forced gruffness. Simmy was undaunted. "Have you been drinking to-night?" "None of your damned business. What do you mean by—" "I am your friend, George," broke in Simmy earnestly. "I can see now that you've had a drink or two, and you—" "I'm as sober as you are!" "More so, I fear. I've had champagne. You—" "I am not drunk all of the time, you know," snarled George.