“It is the inevitable thing; that’s just it. My manners were bad to begin to with, and later--” Dryden leaned forward with his elbows on the table and his head between his hands, scanning his eager companion. “Don’t mention it. You see, it was a matter of pride with me. And now it’s up to me to state that if there’s anything in particular you’d like me to mention about the deceased gentleman or lady----” Dryden sighed at the reminder, “One of the loveliest and most pure-hearted of women.” “That shall go down,” said the reporter, mistaking the apostrophe for an answer, and he drew a note-book from his side pocket. Dryden raised his hand by way of protest. “I was merely thinking aloud. No, we must trust you.” Harrington bowed. He hesitated, then by way of noticing the plural allusion in the speech added: “It was your young lady’s look which wounded me the most. And she said something. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what she said? It wasn’t flattering, I’m sure of that, but it was on the tip of her tongue. I admit I’m mildly curious as to what it was.” Dryden reflected a moment. “You’ve written your article?” he asked, indicating the note-book. “It’s all mapped out in my mind, and I’ve finished the introduction.” “I won’t ask to see it because we trust you. But I’ll make a compact with you.” Dryden held out a cigar to his adversary and proceeded to light one for himself. “Supposing what the lady said referred to something which you have written there, would you agree to cut it out?” Harrington looked gravely knowing. “You think you can tell what I have written?” he asked, tapping his note-book. Dryden took a puff. “Very possibly not. I am merely supposing. But in case the substance of her criticism--for she did criticise--should prove to be almost word for word identical with something in your handwriting--would you agree?” Harrington shrugged his shoulders. “Against the automobile as a stake, if it proves not to be?” he inquired by way of expressing his incredulity. “Gladly.” “Let it be rather against another luncheon with you as agreeable as this.” “Done. I will write her exact language here on this piece of paper and then we will exchange copy.” Harrington sat pleasantly amused, yet puzzled, while Dryden wrote and folded the paper. Then he proffered his note-book with nervous alacrity. “Read aloud until you come to the place,” he said jauntily. Dryden scanned for a moment the memoranda, then looked up. “It is all here at the beginning, just as she prophesied,” he said, with a promptness which was almost radiant, and he read as follows: “The dual funeral of Miss Josephine Ward, the leading society girl, and Richard Upton, the well-known club man, took place this morning at--” He paused and said: “Read now what you have there.”