“Clive, old chap!” exclaimed Vail, wheeling on Creede as soon as the policemen’s footsteps died away. “Why in blazes did you tell such a thundering lie? And, as for you, Miss Gregg--!” “Young man,” interrupted the spinster, with great severity, “I knew you when you were in funny kilt skirts and when you wore your hair roached on top and in silly little ringlets at the back, and when you couldn’t spell ‘cat.’ If you think I’m going to tolerate a scolding from you or going to let you call me to account for anything at all you’re greatly mistaken.” “But--” “Besides,” she went on, relaxing, “suppose I did tell a lie? For heaven’s sake, what is a lie? That weasel of a Reuben Quimby had no more right to the contents of my brain than to the contents of my safe. A person who is not ashamed to lock a door with a key need not be ashamed to lock his mind with a lie.” “Aunt Hester!” cried Doris, quite horrified. “Not that I excuse foolish and unnecessary lies, my dear,” explained her aunt. “They are ill-bred, and they spoil one’s technique for the few really needful lies.” Then, feeling she had averted for the moment Vail’s angry condemnation of her falsehood, she shifted the subject once more. “Clive!” she ordained. “Go to bed. You look like the hero of a Russian problem novel. One of those ghastly faced introspectives with influenza names, who needn’t bother to spend money in getting their hair cut; because they are going to commit suicide in another chapter or so anyhow. You look positively dead. This has been too much for you. Go to bed, my dear boy. And thank you for restoring my faith in boykind a few minutes ago by lying so truthfully.” Clive got to his feet, wavering, his face set in a mask of illness. He turned to Thaxton Vail and held out his hand. To Doris there seemed in the action an assurance of loyalty. To Vail the proffer savored of the dramatic--as if, believing his friend guilty, Creede was none the less willing to shake his hand. “Clive,” said Vail, coldly, ignoring the gesture, “if you think I’m a thief I don’t want to shake hands with you. If you don’t think I’m a thief there’s no need in shaking hands in that melodrama fashion. Good night. Need any help to get upstairs?” “No, thanks,” returned Creede, wincing at the rebuff. “I--” He finished the sentence by toppling over in a dead faint at his host’s feet. Instantly Vail and Chase were working over him, loosening his collar and belt, and lifting his arms on high so that the blood might flow back into the heart. Miss Gregg dived into the recesses of the black bead handbag she always carried on her wrist. From it she exhumed an ounce vial of smelling salts. “Here!” she said. “Let me put this under his nostrils. It’s as strong as the Moral Law and almost as rank. The poor boy! He-- Drat this cork! It’s jammed in. Got a corkscrew?”