Gergue leaned toward him. “Thing is, Wint, I’m wonderin’ what you’d think if I told you something?” “That would depend on what you told me.” “Something for your own good. Help you some.” Wint said, amiably enough: “I want to win this fight, Peter. But--after Amos’s stand--I don’t particularly want any help from him. I’d mistrust it.” “Say this come from me, personal.” “You’re linked with Amos.” Gergue nodded resignedly. “Have it so,” he agreed. “Anyway, I’m going to tell you.” Wint said: “All right. What do you want to tell?” Gergue hesitated for a while, choosing his words. At last he asked: “You wondering what Kite aims to do to trim you?” “Yes.” “Got any ideas?” “No.” Gergue looked at him shrewdly. “Know any way he could hit at you?” “No. Not with the truth.” Gergue hesitated; then he asked slowly: “Know any way he could hit at you with Hetty?” “Hetty?” Wint echoed. “Hetty Morfee?” “Yes. Her.” Wint was stupefied with surprise. “Good Lord, no!” “She got any reason to be against you?” “No. I--She’s friendly, I think. Ought to be.” Gergue puffed at his pipe. Then he got up. “Wint,” he said, “take it for what it’s worth. I hear he’s going to hit you with her.” Wint exclaimed angrily: “You’re crazy, Peter. Or you’re.... Look here, did Amos send you?” “No.” “Is this some damned trick of his?” “No.” “Well, what in God’s name are you talking about?” Gergue said thoughtfully: “I’ve said all I know. Think it over, Wint.” He went out, with a surprising quickness, and was gone before Wint could frame other questions. The young man was left to consider the thing. When Wint went home for supper, he was still mystified; but he was beginning to grow angry. Angry at the mere suggestion that lay behind Peter’s words. Angry at Gergue for saying them. And this anger was a more hopeful sign than his depression of the morning had been. He was fiercely resentful at Hardiston, at the whole world. He met Joan, halfway home. That is to say, he overtook her on her way, and they walked home together. He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not see there was something troubling the girl until she spoke of it. She said: “Wint, I met Agnes Caretall uptown.” He nodded, scarce hearing; and Joan said: “She’s a good deal of a gossip, you know.” There was something in her tone which caught his attention; and he looked at her sharply and asked: “What do you mean? What did she say?” “She said Mr. Kite was going to ruin you,” Joan told him. Wint laughed shortly. “Well, that’s no secret. At least it’s no secret that he wants to.” “She said he was going to,” Joan insisted. Wint asked: “How, since she knew so much, did she know how?” Joan touched his arm. “Don’t be angry, Wint.” But Wint was angry, even with Joan. He exclaimed harshly, after the fashion of angry men: “I’m not mad. What did she say?” Joan told him. “She said they were going to link you up with Hetty.” Wint exclaimed: “Lord! You too? I’m sick of that tale. Hetty!”