True to her sex, Louise was curiously interested in the housekeeping arrangements of a genuine bachelor establishment. Woman-like, she saw many things in the short time she was there—but nothing that diminished her respect for Richard Gordon. The bed in the inner chamber where both men slept was disarranged but clean. Wearing apparel was strewn over chairs and tables. There was a litter of magazines on the floor. She laid them up against Langford; she did not think Gordon had the time or inclination to cultivate the magazine habit. She did not know to whose weakness to ascribe the tobacco pouch and brier-wood pipe placed invitingly by the side of a pair of gay, elaborately bead-embroidered moccasons, cosily stowed away under the head of the bed; but she was rather inclined to lay these, too, to Langford’s charge. The howling tempest outside only served to enhance the cosiness of the rumbling fire and the closely drawn blinds. But tea was never served in those bachelor rooms that night—neither that night nor ever again. It was a little dream that went up in flame with the walls that harbored it. Who first became conscious that the tang of smoke was gradually filling their nostrils, it was hard to tell. They were not far behind each other in that consciousness. It was Langford who discovered that the trouble was at the rear, where the wind would soon have the whole building fanned into flames. Gordon unlocked the door quietly. He said nothing. But Paul, springing in front of him, himself threw it open. It was no new dodge, this burning a man out to shoot him as one would drown out a gopher for the killing. He need not have been afraid. The alarm had spread. The street in front was rapidly filling. One would hardly have dared to shoot—then—if one had meant to. And he did not know. He only knew that deviltry had been in the air for Gordon that night. He had suspected more than he had overheard, but it had been in the air. Gordon saw the action and understood it. He never forgot it. He said nothing, but gave his friend an illuminating smile that Langford understood. Neither ever spoke of it, neither ever forgot it. How tightly can quick impulses bind—forever. Outside, they encountered the Judge in search of his delinquent charges. “I’m sorry, Dick,” he said. “Dead loss, my boy. This beastly wind is your undoing.” “I’m not worrying, Judge,” responded Gordon, grimly. “I intend for some one else to do that.” “Hellity damn, Dick, hellity damn!” exploded Jim Munson in his ear. The words came whistling through his lips, caught and whirled backward by the play of the storm. The cold was getting bitter, and a fine, cutting snow was at last driving before the wind.