"Yes, to be sure, yes, to be sure!" piped the old beau. "How-de-do! How-de-do-o-o! My son Jack and I motor every morning at this hour. It is becoming a custom--he! he!--every day from ten to eleven--then a biscuit and a glass of sherry--then a nap--te-he! Oh, yes, every day, Mr. Mallett, rain or fair--then luncheon at one, and the cigarette--te-he!--and a little sleep--and the drive at five! Yes, Mr. Mallett, it is the routine of a very old man who knew your grandfather--and all his set--when the town was gay below Bleecker Street! Yes, yes--te-he-he!" Nervous spasms which passed as smiles distorted the younger Dysart's visage; the aged beau offered his hand to Duane, who took it in silence, his eyes fixed on the shrivelled, painted face: "Your grandfather was a very fine man," he piped; "very fine! ve-ery fine! And so I perceive is his grandson--te-he!--and I flatter myself that my boy Jack is not unadmired--te-he-he!--no, no--not precisely unnoticed in New York--the town whose history is the history of his own race, Mr. Mallett--he is a good son to me--yes, yes, a good son. It is gratifying to me to know that you are his friend. He is a good friend to have, Mr. Mallett, a good friend and a good son." Duane bent gently over the shrivelled hand. "I won't detain you from your drive, Mr. Dysart. I hope you will have a pleasant one. It is a pleasure to know my grandfather's old friends. Good-bye." And, erect, he hesitated a moment, then, for an old man's sake he held out his hand to Jack Dysart, bidding him good-bye in a pleasant voice pitched clear and decided, so that deaf ears might corroborate what half-blind and peering eyes so dimly beheld. Dysart walked to the door with him, waved the servant aside, and, laying a shaking hand on the bronze knob, opened the door for his unbidden guest. As Duane passed him he said: "Thank you, Mallett," in a voice so low that Duane was half-way to his cab before he understood. * * * * * That day, and the next, and all that week he worked in his pitlike studio. Through the high sky-window a cloudless zenith brooded; the heat became terrific; except for the inevitable crush of the morning and evening migration south and north, the streets were almost empty under a blazing sun. His father seemed to be physically better. Although he offered no confidences, it appeared to the son that there was something a little more cheerful in his voice and manner. It may have been only the anticipation of departure; for he was going West in a day or two, and it came out that Wilton was going with him. The day he left, Duane drove him to the station. There was a private car, the "Cyane," attached to the long train. Wilton met them, spoke pleasantly to Duane; but Colonel Mallett did not invite his son to enter the car, and adieux were said where they stood.