Stevens called up Georgia's room in the morning to ask how she had slept and she reported, "Well--that is, pretty well," which wasn't true, for she had tossed wretchedly through the night. By careful brushing and buying a shirtwaist she managed to measurably freshen her appearance, though she reached the office with tired eyes and hectic splotches beneath her eyes. Al was there before her waiting with white face. "Georgia," he began miserably, "I've been hunting the town for you. Where have you been?" "Alone." "You've frightened us half to death. Mother's sick over it." "You can have Jim in the house, or me, but not both of us." She would give him no more satisfaction, and he was turning away angry at her obstinacy, when Mason came up to greet her. "Good morning." "Good morning." Al quickly divined that here was the man. It was written in the way he looked at her, and in Georgia's sudden sidelong glance at Al to see if he saw. "I'd like a word with you," said the brother to the lover, tapping him on the shoulder with studied rudeness, "now." Stevens didn't understand the situation, but he was properly resentful, and lowered at the stranger. In these subtle days of commerce, finger-tips on collar bones may convey all that was once meant by a glove in the face. "My brother, Mr. Stevens," she explained. They did not shake hands. Mason was not quite sure from the young fellow's expression just what might happen, but he was sure it had better not happen right there. "Let's get out of the office--and you can have as many words as you want," said he. Georgia arose to go with them. "No, don't you come," said Stevens. "I think perhaps it would be better." "But it wouldn't. You stay here," the man answered with great positiveness. She sank obediently in the chair, to the disgusted amazement of her brother, and let them go alone. "Were you out with her last night?" "Yes." The lad sunk his hand to his coat pocket, his wild young brain aflame with violence and romance and vengeance and the memory of Moxey's sweetheart's uncle who had slain the despoiler of his home. Stevens was near death and he knew it, but he never batted an eye as Al reported later to Moxey. "I knew it damned well. She said she was alone." His hand tightened on the automatic, pressing down the safety lock, and he pointed the gun, so that he could shoot through his pocket and kill. "She was, after eleven. I left her then." "Prove it. You've got to," insultingly. "Go look at the hotel register, for the name of Miss Georgia Talbot." Al grunted. Here was a concrete fact--subject to verification, yes or no. "All right," he vouchsafed curtly, "if it turns out that way--but one more thing--keep away from her after this altogether--understand." Al shot out his jaw and swung around his pocket with the barrel pointing straight at Stevens' middle. He looked just then a good deal like a young tough delivering a serious threat, which he was.