"You young sneak!" retorted Dysart. "I suppose you think that what you have heard will warrant your hanging around my wife. Try it and see." "Good God, Dysart!" he said, "I never thought you were anything more vicious than what is called a 'dancing man.' What are you, anyhow?" "You'll learn if you tamper with my affairs," said Dysart. He whipped off his mask and turned a corpse-like visage on the younger man. Every feature of his face had altered: his good looks were gone, the youth in his eyes had disappeared, only a little evil lustre played over them; and out of the drawn pallor Duane saw an old man peering, an old man's lips twitching back from uneven and yellowed teeth. "Mallett," he said, "you listen to me. Keep your investigating muzzle out of my affairs; forget what you've ferreted out; steer clear of me and mine. I want no scandal, but if you raise a breath of it you'll have enough concerning yourself to occupy you. Do you understand?" "No," said Duane mechanically, staring at the man before him. "Well, then, to be more precise, if you lift one finger to injure me you'll cut a figure in court.... And you can marry her later." "Who?" "My wife. I don't think Miss Seagrave will stand for what I'll drag you through if you don't keep clear of me!" Duane gazed at him curiously: "So _that_ is what you are, Dysart," he said aloud to himself. Dysart's temples reddened. "Yes, and then some!... I understand that you have given yourself the privilege of discussing my financial affairs in public. Have you?" Duane said in a dull voice: "The Algonquin Trust was mentioned, I believe. I did say that you are a director." "You said I was hard hit and that the Clearing House meant to weed out a certain element that I represented in New York." "I did not happen to say that," said Duane wearily, "but another man did." "Oh. _You_ didn't say it?" "No. I don't lie, Dysart." "Then add to that negative virtue by keeping your mouth shut," said Dysart between his teeth, "or you'll have other sorts of suits on your hands. I warn you now to keep clear of me and mine." "Just what _is_ yours?" inquired Duane patiently. "You'll find out if you touch it." "Oh. Is--is Miss Quest included by any hazard? Because if the right chance falls my way, I shall certainly interfere." "If you do, I shall begin suit for alienation within twenty-four hours." "Oh, no, you won't. You're horribly afraid, Dysart. This grimacing of yours is fear. All you want is to be let alone, to burrow through the society that breeds your sort. Like a maggot in a chestnut you feed on what breeds you. I don't care. Feed! What bred you is as rotten as you are. I'm done with it--done with all this," turning his head toward the flare of light. "Go on and burrow. What nourishes you can look out for itself.... Only"--he wheeled around and looked into the darkness where, unseen, Sylvia Quest awaited him--"only, in this set, the young have less chance than the waifs of the East Side."