"Remarkable man!" Willoughby commented, with fervor. "He was," assented Barton. "In that respect, at least. He carried it too far. He wanted to marry every good-looking girl he met. He would have been married a dozen times before he graduated, had not his friends interfered." "Thank heaven for friends!" commented Willoughby, with still more fervor. "Till at last," continued Barton, now sufficiently himself to punctuate his narrative with occasional whiffs of his cigar, "at last Carhart fell under the influence of a widow." "A designing widow," I put in, to make the situation clearer. "Attractive?" Willoughby inquired. "Oh, decidedly." "Encumbrances?" "No," answered Barton. "Not exactly. There were rumors of a husband in the background somewhere, but he was not produced." "A pretty widow is beyond the habeas corpus act," mused Willoughby. "Quite so," Barton admitted. "But, at all events, there was nothing really known against the lady except a maiden aunt, and this objectionable relative was, by the way, quite as much opposed to the match as were Carhart's own people." "And why were they opposed to it?" "Oh, you see, with his proclivities for poetry and acting, they were afraid an unhappy marriage would drive him to the stage, and, naturally, they took every measure to prevent it." Here Barton paused to light a fresh cigar, while we others sipped our coffee thoughtfully. "And what were these preventive measures?" Willoughby inquired. "Oh, the usual thing," said Barton. "Threats, badgering, advice and promises. All these failed to move him; he was determined to make her his wife, and, as a last resource, his father wrote to me, putting the matter in my hands without reserve. Our ancestors came over on the same boat, so it appeared." "The _Mayflower_," I breathed, but that was scarcely necessary. "Quite so," he admitted; "and that, of course, entailed a certain obligation." "Of course," we both assented, and the narrative continued. "An elopement had been planned, as we had every reason to believe, for a certain evening; and the elder Carhart kept the Boston wires hot all day with appeals to me to save his son." "And did you?" Willoughby inquired. "Yes," answered Barton, cautiously, "in a way." "How?" "I began by inviting him to dinner." "And, of course, he did not accept?" "Oh, yes, he did. He both accepted and arrived on time, and I must say I never saw a man confront a filet mignon bordelaise with more outward satisfaction; and, though we spoke upon indifferent topics, his spirits seemed exuberant beyond all bounds. But you may be sure I kept an eye upon his every movement. I was determined he should not escape. In an extremity, I was prepared to administer a harmless sleeping-potion in his coffee." "Indeed!" said Willoughby, as he set down his cup, and ran an investigating and suspicious tongue along the edges of his lips.