Davy Acton came, and Broadwell saw his error. Bellair perceived that his luncheon-companion had made known his engagement at the office before leaving.... “Sit down, Davy. I’m glad to see you----” The boy had grown. Bellair noted that simple thing, as he noted the fact also that Davy was tortured with embarrassment, and had not meant to come in. He wriggled his hand forward to take Bellair’s, which was held toward his, and then looked down shamefacedly, as if _he_ had been charged with theft. Bellair knew well that the boy’s trouble was how to meet him--formerly a friend, but now an outcast from the firm. A kind of darkness stole over him. He saw now that Broadwell believed him a thief, even as the landlady had believed; but in the case of neither of these did the dread finality come to him, as from the face of this stricken boy. This was the thought that shot through Bellair’s mind, “No one liked Davy so well as I did; no one tried to help him as I did; and now he thinks my liking and my helping, a part of the looseness of character which made me a thief.” The thought was strange, yet natural, too. It came into the darkness which had covered the abode of Bellair’s consciousness. * * * * * “A bit of copy--that I missed getting off,” Broadwell was saying. “I was excited when you called.... All right, Davy. I’ve told ’em where to find it on the back of the note.... And now Bellair--you were saying----” 2 Bellair watched for the turn on the part of Broadwell that would reveal the character of his message, for he did not believe the matter of the copy for the printer. The chill was thick between them, yet Bellair managed to say: “I’m not here for reprisal or trouble-making. It’s rather a novelty to be innocent, yet charged with a thing; certainly one sees a look from the world that could come no other way. I want to see you again--soon. I’ve got a story to tell you. It was a big thing to me. We used to have things in common. I’d like to tell you the story and see how it strikes you----” “Good. I’m to spare----” “Suppose you come here to lunch to-morrow----” “No, you come with me.” “I’d prefer it the other way,” Bellair declared. “It’s my story you are to listen to.” As they parted, there was just a trace of the old Broadwell, that left Bellair with a feeling of kindness. “I’m interested to hear that story,” the advertising-man said. “It did something to you apparently. Pulled you down a lot--but that’s not all. I can’t make it out exactly--but you’ve got something, Bellair.”