Back in her place opposite once more Margery looked at her husband seriously, a pucker of perplexity on her smooth face. "By the way," she digressed, "I've been wondering for some time now if anything's wrong with Elice and Steve. Has he hinted anything to you?" "No; why?" "Oh, I don't know anything definite; but he's been here three evenings the last week, you know, Sunday evening for one at that, and it looks queer." "I've noticed it too," admitted Randall, "and he's coming again this evening. He asked permission and I couldn't well refuse. Not that I don't like to have him come," quickly, "but it interferes with my lectures next morning." "And with our own evenings. I--just wish he wouldn't come so often." Randall said nothing, but unconsciously he was stroking the bald spot already appearing on the crown of his head in a way he had when worried. "And, besides," justified Margery, "it isn't treating Elice right. I think it's a shame." This time the man looked up. "She didn't say anything, intimate anything, I hope?" he hesitated. "Of course not. It isn't her way. She's--queer for a woman, Elice is; she never gets confidential, no matter how good an opportunity you offer." A pause followed that spoke volumes. "Agnes Simpson, though, says there is something the matter--with Steve at least. They're talking about it in the department." "Talking about what, Margery?" soberly. "He's a friend of ours, you know." "Yes, I know," the voice was swift with a pent-up secret, "and we've tried hard to be nice to him; but, after all, we're not to blame that he--drinks!" "Margery!" It was open disapproval this time, a thing unusual for Harry Randall. "We mustn't listen to such gossip, either of us. Steve and I have been chums for years and years and--we simply mustn't listen to such things at all." For an instant the girl was silent; then the brown head tossed rebelliously. "Well, I can't help it if people talk; and it isn't fair of you to suppose that I pass it on either--except to you. You know that I--" she checked herself. "It isn't as though Agnes was the only one either," she defended. "I've heard it several times lately." Inspiration came and she looked at her husband directly. "Honest, Harry, haven't you heard it too?" The man hesitated, and on the instant solid ground vanished from beneath his feet. "Yes, I have," he admitted weakly. "It's a burning shame too that people will concoct--" He halted suddenly, listening. His eyes went to the clock. "I had no idea it was so late," he digressed as the bell rang loudly. "That's Steve now. I know his ring."