“Yes, I understand and I won't forget. Thank you, Mr. McGowan, and good-night. Come along, Jack,--Corinne's worrying, and will be till I get home.” The two kept silent as they walked up the hill Garry, because he was too tired to discuss the cowardly attack; Jack, because what he had to say must be said when they were alone,--when he could get hold of Garry's hand and make him open his heart. As they approached the small house and mounted the steps leading to the front porch, Corinne's face could be seen pressed against a pane in one of the dining-room windows. Garry touched Jack's arm and pointed ahead: “Poor Cory!” he exclaimed with a deep sigh, “that's the way she is every night. Coming home is sometimes the worst part of it all, Jack.” The door flew open and Corinne sprang out: “Are you tired, dear?” she asked, peering into his face and kissing him. Then turning to Jack: “Thank you, Jack!--It was so good of you to go. Ruth sent me word you had gone to meet him.” She led the way into the house, relieving Garry of his hat, and moving up an easy chair stood beside it until he had settled himself into its depths. Again she bent over and kissed him: “How are things to-day, dear?--any better?” she inquired in a quavering voice. “Some of them are better and some are worse, Cory; but there's nothing for you to worry about. That's what I've been telling Jack. How's baby? Anybody been here from the board?--Any letters?” “Baby's all right,” the words came slowly, as if all utterance gave her pain. “No, there are no letters. Mr. McGowan was here, but I told him you wouldn't be home till late.” “Yes, I saw him,” replied Garry, dropping his voice suddenly to a monotone, an expression of pain followed by a shade of anxiety settling on his face: McGowan and his affairs were evidently unpleasant subjects. At this instant the cry of a child was heard. Garry roused himself and turned his head. “Listen--that's baby crying! Better go to her, Cory.” Garry waited until his wife had left the room, then he rose from, his chair, crossed to the sideboard, poured out three-quarters of a glass of raw whiskey and drank it without drawing a breath. “That's the first to-day, Jack. I dare not touch it when I'm on a strain like this. Can't think clearly, and I want my head,--all of it. There's a lot of sharks down in New York,--skin you alive if they could. I beg your pardon, old man,--have a drop?” Jack waved his hand in denial, his eyes still on his friend: “Not now, Garry, thank you.” Garry dropped the stopper into the decanter, pushed back the empty tumbler and began pacing the floor, halting now and then to toe some pattern in the carpet, talking all the time to himself in broken sentences, like one thinking aloud. All Jack's heart went out to his friend as he watched him. He and Ruth were so happy. All their future was so full of hope and promise, and Garry--brilliant, successful Garry,--the envy of all his associates, so harassed and so wretched!