He stepped closer to the girl, and his voice grew harsh, almost rasping in its intensity. "I _can_ beat the game. And I will beat it--now! Just to show you and your kind what a _man_ can do--a man, I mean," he added, "'whose sole recommendation seems to be that he can lick most anybody--and can drink more and stay soberer than any of the sports he travels with.' Incidentally, I am glad to know your real opinion of me. I once believed that you were different from the others--that in you I had found a woman who possessed a real soul." He laughed, a short, grating laugh--deep down, as though rude fingers drew a protest from raw heart-strings--a laugh that is not good to hear. "I even thought," he went on, "that you cared for me--a little. That you were the one woman who, at the last of things, would give a man a helping hand, a little word of encouragement and hope, perhaps, instead of the final kick." He bowed stiffly and turned toward the door. "Good-by!" he said, and the heavy portieres closed behind him. In the room the girl, white as marble, heard the click of the front door, the roar of a newly cranked motor, and the dying _chug, chug_ of the retreating taxi. That afternoon Charlie Manton rode alone, and when he returned, hungry as a young wolf, to be told that his sister had retired with a sick headache, he drew his own conclusions, nodding sagely over his solitary dinner. Later, as he passed her door on the way to his room, he placed his ear at the keyhole and listened a long time to her half-muffled sobs. "Gee!" he muttered as he passed down the hall, "they must have had an awful scrap!" He turned and quietly retraced his steps. In the library he switched on the lights and crossed to the telephone. "There isn't any sense in that," he said, speaking to himself. "Bill loves Eth--that's a cinch. And she does love him, too, even if she won't let on. "She wouldn't stick up in her room all day bawling her eyes out if she didn't. I'll call Bill up and tell him so, then he'll come and they'll make up. I bet he's sorry, too, by now." At the Carmody residence he was told that Bill was not in. He received the same answer from several clubs, at each of which he left explicit instructions for Mr. Carmody to call him up at the first possible moment. Thereafter Charlie frequented the gymnasiums and made industrious inquiry, but it was many a day before he again saw his idol. Bill Carmody was missing from his accustomed haunts, and none could tell whither he had gone. Those were days fraught with anxiety for the boy. Ethel, to whom he was devoted, went about the house listless and preoccupied, in spite of her efforts to appear cheerful. When he attempted to reason with her she burst into tears and forbade him to mention Bill Carmody's name in her hearing as long as he lived. Whereupon the youngster retired disconsolately to his room to think things over.