Harriet was quite herself now. All through the dinner she entertained him, talking lightly about the little amusing incidents of the day, and though her gayety ran false on her own ears, she knew from his face that he thought it spontaneous. “Your day has gone all right, I suppose?” It was the question she had promised herself not to ask again. She had held it back as long as she could, but it had escaped in spite of her, and she realized how vain such a promise had been. He nodded. “Nothing much one way or the other.” “You didn’t do any trading in lard, then. That must have been rather exciting when it slumped.” He smiled. “You didn’t think I’d got caught in that, did you?” “The other way about,” she said with a laugh. “I hoped you might have made something on it. You knew it was coming, didn’t you?” “No, I’m leaving lard alone just now.” (She wondered how real the indifference in his voice might be.) “That’s Pickering’s deal. I haven’t mixed into it--yet--What’s that?” His exclamation was caused by the sound of voices raised in altercation. It was followed by the thud of heavy footsteps approaching the dining room. Sponley had half risen from his chair when the portière was roughly brushed aside and Curtin entered the room. “I’ve found you,” he said. “The maid told me you were at dinner. She didn’t want to let me in, but I came. She thought I was drunk; everybody thinks I’m drunk, but I’m not. I had to see you on a matter of importance.” He spoke clumsily, with a labored distinctness. Sponley looked at him from head to foot, at his flushed face and disordered clothes. “Take off your hat, Mr. Curtin,” he said shortly. “I--I forgot,” stammered Curtin. “You probably think--” “One moment,” Sponley interrupted. “Mrs. Sponley, if you will leave us for a few moments, I’ll attend to Mr. Curtin’s business.” When they were alone Sponley forestalled Curtin’s attempt to speak. “Don’t tell me again you aren’t drunk. I know you aren’t. I know what’s the matter with you. You’ve been buying lard to-day and you’ve got squeezed. That’s the case, isn’t it?” Curtin stared at him dully, but Sponley did not return the look. He eyed his half-empty coffee cup and tapped it lightly with a spoon. “I supposed you would do that,” he said thoughtfully, “and I suppose you have taken some of the bank’s money to buy it with. You haven’t any of your own.” Curtin’s apathy forsook him suddenly. “You suppose!” he cried. His shaking voice gained intensity as he went on. “You knew I would. You told me to. You told me lard would go up, and you lied to me. You damned old devil,” he shouted, “you tricked me. You did it to send me to prison. You--” “Be quiet!” Sponley thundered. It had been years since he had so far lost control of himself; but Curtin had chanced to strike the joint in his armor. The thought that Harriet had overheard the words put him for an instant into a rage. But he recovered quickly.