“Me?” said Bob miserably, almost overwhelmed by this pathetic picture Dickie had drawn. “But it wasn’t! It was Truth.” Dickie snorted. “What do you want me to do? Commit suicide? Annihilate truth? That would be one way of doing it. I’m sure I shouldn’t much mind. Shall I poison Truth or blow its brains out? Or shall I take it down to the lake and jump in with it? Do you think it has made _me_ very happy? What am I? What have I become? Where is my good name?” He was thinking of what the temperamental little thing considered him. “Say, do I look like a criminal?” he demanded, confronting Dickie. The latter stared, then shrugged. Of course, if Bob wanted to rave—? “Or a crazy man? Do I look crazy?” he continued almost fiercely. “Well, there are people in there,” indicating the house, “who think I am.” Dickie started slightly and looked thoughtful. “You ask the judge, or the doctor, or—a lot of others. Ask Miss Gwendoline Gerald,” he concluded bitterly. Dickie shifted a leg. “It might not be a bad idea,” he said in a peculiar tone, whose accent Bob didn’t notice, however. For some moments the two young men sat moodily and silently side by side. “Where are Dan and Clarence now?” asked Bob in a dull tone, after a while. “Gone to New York. Hustled there early this morning after some hurry-up messages gave an inkling of what was going on. I’m to do my best at this end. Keep my eyes on Mrs. Dan and Mrs. Clarence, and incidentally, learn and do what I can.” As he spoke Dickie tapped his leg with his cane; at the same time he bestowed another of those peculiar looks on Bob. Just then a young lady stepped from the house and came toward them. She was in the trimmest attire—for shooting or fishing—and looked extraordinarily trim, herself. A footman followed with two light rods and a basket. “Come on,” she said lightly to Bob. “Might as well get started. It’s almost noon.” “Started?” he stammered, staring at her. “Yes, on that fishing excursion we planned.” “We?” he repeated in the same tone. And then— “All right!” he said. It occurred to him, if he went off somewhere alone, with the temperamental young thing, he wouldn’t, at any rate, have to bob against a score or so of other people throughout the day. Better one than a crowd! “I’m ready,” he added, taking the rods and small basket. “But, I say—” Dickie had arisen. There was a new look in his eyes—of disappointment, surprise—perhaps apprehension, too! “I say—” he repeated, looking darkly toward Bob. The temperamental young thing threw him a smile. “Sorry, Dickie, but a previous engagement.—You know how it is!” “I can imagine,” thought Dickie ominously, watching them disappear. Then his glance shifted viciously toward the house, and there was a look of stern determination in his eyes. As he mingled with others of the guests a few moments later, however, his expression had become one of studied amiability. Dickie was deep. His grievance now was as great as Dan’s or Clarence’s.