“Yes; they are good friends,” Margaret said. “That is one thing I admire in him. She is poor, and doesn't receive much attention. Fred takes her to places and goes to see her out of pure kindness of heart.” “Well, I'm off,” Dearing said, as he turned to leave. “Now you go to bed, young lady, and forget about this disagreeable mess for to-night, anyway. It may be all for the best.” CHAPTER IV |LEAVING Madge mute and motionless at the gate, staring through the starlight after him, Dearing strode down the street past the fine old home of Kenneth Galt, which was set well back in spacious grounds on the left. Along the way were old-fashioned houses in bad condition, old buildings which had been modernized, and which stood on well-kept lawns, and others which had no touch of antiquity. After a few minutes he reached a plain two-story frame house which had once been white, but now showed little trace of its original paint. It was the home of Fred Walton's father, Stafford's well-to-do banker, money-lender, “note-shaver,” and all-round speculator in stocks, bonds, and real estate. “Fred may be here,” Dearing reflected, as he paused at the ramshackle gate and viewed the forbidding old house as it loomed up among the trees, fifty yards from where he stood; “but he'd certainly be excusable for seeking a more cheerful place to spend an evening, considering that meddlesome stepmother of his.” The parsimony of old Simon Walton could not have been better illustrated than by the fact that not a ray of light showed itself in all the rooms of the house. It was said of him that, fond of smoking though he was, he never lighted his pipe without getting a match and tobacco from some one else. At all events, he was at home. And as he went up the uneven brick walk, Wynn saw him seated on the front porch without his coat.