Late in the afternoon Blythe,--after submitting to an interview at the hands of A. Lincoln Pollock,--sat alone before the fire, his long legs stretched out, a magazine lying idly in his lap, his pipe dead but gripped firmly in the hand that had remained stationary for a long, long time halfway to his lips. He was staring abstractedly into the neglected fire. His sister came in. He was not aware of her entrance until she appeared directly in front of him. "Hello!" he exclaimed, blinking. "What is on your mind, Addy?" He glanced over his shoulder. "Where is Alix?" "Writing letters. There were two or three she has to get off before we start for town." She sat down on the arm of his chair. "You may as well tell me what you really think of him, Addison. Isn't he good enough for her?" He lowered his voice. The frown of perplexity deepened in his eyes. "I can't make him out, Mary," he said, lowering his voice. "What do you mean?" she asked quickly. "Well, I may be doing him the rottenest injustice, but--somehow--he doesn't ring quite true to me." "For goodness sake, Addy,--" she began, and then: "In what way? Hurry up! Tell me before she comes down. Isn't he a--a gentleman?" "Oh, yes,--I suppose he is. He's a most engaging chap; he certainly seems well-bred, and he's darned good-looking. That isn't what I mean." He hesitated a moment and then blurted out: "Does Alix know POSITIVELY that he was in the American Ambulance? I mean, has she anybody else's word for it except his?" Mary Blythe stared at her brother, her lips parted. Then her eyes narrowed suddenly. "Don't--don't you think he's straight, Addy?" she half-whispered. "I confess I'm puzzled. I never dreamed of doubting him when I went there. But I've been doing a lot of thinking since I saw him, and,--by George, Mary, I'm up a tree. Good Lord, if he should be--well, if he should be putting something over on Alix, he ought to be shot, that's all. Do you think she's in love with him?" "I don't know. She's interested in him, I'm sure, but two or three times I have caught the queerest little look in her eyes when she is speaking of him,--almost as if she were afraid of something. I can't describe it. It's just--well, the only thing I can think of is that it's kind of pleading, if you know what I mean." "Groping, I guess is the word you're after." "Exactly. But go on,--tell me."