"Last night, sir, about ten o'clock. When I let him in he rushed past me and went up-stairs, sir. I followed him, thinking he might need something, but he turned on me and cursed me, sir. When I ventured to take him some breakfast he swore at me again, and told me to get out of the way. I'm glad you've come, sir. I was at a loss to know what to do about luncheon." Huntington waited to hear no more, but mounted quickly to Hamlen's room and knocked gently on the door. "Keep out, I tell you!" came a hoarse, guttural voice so unlike Hamlen's that it startled him. "How many times must I tell you to leave me alone!" "It is I,--Huntington." There was a sound of shuffling feet, the pushing back of a chair, and the door was flung open. "I knew you would come to me!" Hamlen cried, extending his hand eagerly. "You are the one man on earth who would stand by me!" "Of course; but you've given me a devilish shock, old man. Come down-stairs where we can talk things over." "Yes, we must do that," he assented, following. "My only fear was that you might not understand, and would delay your coming. I couldn't have waited long." "I came as soon as I learned the facts." "I should not have doubted. Now let us sit down." The real shock to Huntington was that so great physical change could take place within so short time. Hamlen seemed years older. His erect carriage had slackened, his face was sunken, his hands and body twitched nervously, and his eyes burned with a consuming fire. Pity filled Huntington's heart, and he leaned over and placed his hand on his friend's knee. "You mustn't take it like this," he said quietly. "There is something to be said on both sides." Hamlen looked at him with a wan smile. "I wish there were," he said; "but let us not speak of that. To you, at least, there is no need of explanation. I told you what I dreaded,--well, the worst has come to pass; that's all there is to it." "No!" Huntington contradicted, determined that he should not bear all the blame; "there is much more to it than that. You and I are not the only ones who understand. Mrs. Thatcher instructed me to ask your forgiveness for her blindness. She understands, too, Hamlen, and she knows that she brought it on herself." "Marian asks _my_ forgiveness!" he repeated stupefied,--"she asks me to forgive her?" Huntington nodded. He pressed his hands against his temples. "My God, man! Is the world all topsy-turvy! I forget my obligations toward my hostess, I am false to my responsibilities as a friend, I force myself upon a married woman whom in all honor I am bound to protect,--and she asks me to forgive her! You are mocking me, Huntington. It is unworthy of you!"