"There, Tom," was the retort, "don't run a joke into the ground. When a man shows the genuine stuff, he isn't to be fooled any longer." Bradish followed suit, and shook hands with Barnstable, and Harbinger after him. "You're all right, Barnstable," Bradish observed; "but what are we to do with the Count?" "Oh, that ass!" Jack responded. "I'd like to help duck him in a horse-pond; but of course as he didn't write the book, Mr. Barnstable won't mind apologizing for a hasty word said by mistake. Any gentleman would do that." "Of course if you think it's all right," Barnstable said, "I'd rather apologize; but I'd rather fight than have any doubt about the way I feel toward the whelp that libelized my wife." Jack took him by the shoulder, and spoke to him with a certain slow distinctness such as one might use in addressing a child. "Do have some common sense about this, Barnstable," he said. "Do get it out of your head that the man who wrote that book knew anything about your affairs. I've told you that already." "I told him too," put in Harbinger. "I suppose you know," Barnstable replied, shaking his head; "but it is strange how near it fits!" Bradish took Barnstable off to the writing room to pen a suitable apology to the Count, and Jack and Harbinger remained behind. "Extraordinary beggar," observed Jack, when they had departed. "Yes," answered the other absently. "Jack, of course you didn't write 'Love in a Cloud'?" "Of course not. What an idiotic idea!" "Fairfield said Barnstable had been accusing you of it, but I knew it couldn't be anything but his crazy nonsense. Of course the Count didn't write it either?" Jack eyed his companion inquiringly. "Look here, Tom," he said, "What are you driving at? Of course the Count didn't write it. You are about as crazy as Barnstable." "Oh, I never thought he was the man; but who the deuce is it?" "Why should you care?" Harbinger leaned forward to the grate, and began to pound the coal with the poker in a way that bespoke embarrassment. Suddenly he turned, and broke out explosively. "I should think I ought to care to know what man my wife is writing letters to! You heard her say she wrote that letter to Christopher Calumus." Jack gave a snort of mingled contempt and amusement. "You old mutton-head," he said. "Your wife didn't write that letter. I know all about it, and I got it back from the Count." "You did?" questioned Harbinger with animation. "Then why did Letty say she wrote it?" "She wanted to shield somebody else. Now that's all I shall tell you. See here, are you coming the Othello dodge?" Tom gave a vicious whack at a big lump which split into a dozen pieces, all of which guzzled and sputtered after the unpleasant fashion of soft coal. "There's something here I don't understand," he persisted. Jack regarded him curiously a moment. Then he lighted a fresh cigarette, and lay back in his chair, stretching out his legs luxuriously.