“Bagsbury,” he said, “I’m a fool. I’ve lost my temper. Haven’t got it back yet. I’m disappointed that you can’t help me out. But I can see how the business looks to you, or, rather, I know I’ll be able to see to-morrow morning. I don’t feel like talking about it yet, and I’m going home. But the thing’ll come out right, somehow. We aren’t children. Come, the others’ll wonder what’s become of us.” It was not fear that induced the sensation of nausea which John Bagsbury experienced at that moment, though Sponley’s conciliatory words were far more formidable than his previous declaration of war, for they meant that the war was already begun. For a flash this uncontrollable disgust showed in his face. Sponley saw it and understood. “Come,” he repeated, “let’s find the others.” An hour later Dick, entering the library, found John sitting there alone. “Come in,” he called, “come in, Dick, you’re just the one I wanted to see.” But though she came and stood near his chair, he seemed again to have lost himself in a brown study. “Has anything serious happened?” she asked at length. “I think I want to thank you, Dick,” he said, disregarding her question. “I think you’ve pulled me out of the hole. “A man loses something, living as I have,” he went on presently. “He loses the power of seeing things clearly. I suppose you never have any doubt as to whether a thing’s straight or crooked. I have an idea that having you around--well--that you’ve brushed up my windows a little,” he smiled apologetically over the figure, “and--and I want to thank you.” Dick’s eyes were full, and she was not sure of her voice, but even if she had been ready, John would not have given her time to speak. He was filled with a mixture of embarrassment and alarm over the words he had just said, and he hurriedly changed the subject. “I’m afraid you won’t forgive me readily for coming in here as I did when you and Dorlin--” “What do you mean? forgive you?” “Why, yes; I interrupted--” “You didn’t interrupt at all. We were just--we were waiting for you. And anyway, when people are as good friends as we three are, there isn’t any such thing as an interruption.” “Friends?” he said. “You and--” “That’s just what Jack and I are, if that’s what you mean. I was afraid you might not understand.” John was still smiling somewhat sceptically. “He was speaking of that himself, to-night--of our being friends, I mean. He told me--” (Dick! Dick! what are you doing?) She hesitated a moment; then it came with a rush. “He told me that he had thought once that--that--but he knew now he had been mistaken.” Her face was averted. Her voice was uneven, but with what kind of emotion John could not be sure. He was not expert in the matter of inflections. “Are you laughing or crying, Dick?” “Neither,” she answered, turning upon him; “I’m going to bed.” CHAPTER XII CONSEQUENCES