“I am. I’ve made a hell of a mess of everything.” He paused. “I’d better start at the beginning--or will it bore you?” “Not at all; go on.” There was, however, a hesitant note in Dean’s voice. This trip East had been planned for a holiday--to find Gordon Sterrett in trouble exasperated him a little. “Go on,” he repeated, and then added half under his breath, “Get it over with.” “Well,” began Gordon unsteadily, “I got back from France in February, went home to Harrisburg for a month, and then came down to New York to get a job. I got one--with an export company. They fired me yesterday.” “Fired you?” “I’m coming to that, Phil. I want to tell you frankly. You’re about the only man I can turn to in a matter like this. You won’t mind if I just tell you frankly, will you, Phil?” Dean stiffened a bit more. The pats he was bestowing on his knees grew perfunctory. He felt vaguely that he was being unfairly saddled with responsibility; he was not even sure he wanted to be told. Though never surprised at finding Gordon Sterrett in mild difficulty, there was something in this present misery that repelled him and hardened him, even though it excited his curiosity. “Go on.” “It’s a girl.” “Hm.” Dean resolved that nothing was going to spoil his trip. If Gordon was going to be depressing, then he’d have to see less of Gordon. “Her name is Jewel Hudson,” went on the distressed voice from the bed. “She used to be ‘pure,’ I guess, up to about a year ago. Lived here in New York--poor family. Her people are dead now and she lives with an old aunt. You see it was just about the time I met her that everybody began to come back from France in droves--and all I did was to welcome the newly arrived and go on parties with ’em. That’s the way it started, Phil, just from being glad to see everybody and having them glad to see me.” “You ought to’ve had more sense.” “I know,” Gordon paused, and then continued listlessly. “I’m on my own now, you know, and Phil, I can’t stand being poor. Then came this darn girl. She sort of fell in love with me for a while and, though I never intended to get so involved, I’d always seem to run into her somewhere. You can imagine the sort of work I was doing for those exporting people--of course, I always intended to draw; do illustrating for magazines; there’s a pile of money in it.” “Why didn’t you? You’ve got to buckle down if you want to make good,” suggested Dean with cold formalism. “I tried, a little, but my stuff’s crude. I’ve got talent, Phil; I can draw--but I just don’t know how. I ought to go to art school and I can’t afford it. Well, things came to a crisis about a week ago. Just as I was down to about my last dollar this girl began bothering me. She wants some money; claims she can make trouble for me if she doesn’t get it.” “Can she?”