you may consider yourself free." In his mind's eye he could see the tall artist march away. He felt again as though he had been kicked in the mouth. II Ranken Townsend had arranged a sitting with Madame Mascheri, the famous opera singer, at eleven o'clock. He entered his studio at ten, and the first thing he did was to ring up one of his best friends and get into a quarrel with him. He had already so surprised his old servant at breakfast that she had retired to the kitchen in tears. He was angry and sore and there was likely to be a nice clash in the studio when he said sharp things to the spoiled lady who considered that all men were in their proper places only when they were at her feet. Ranken Townsend was more than angry. He was disappointed--mentally sick--completely out of gear. He had seen Peter Guthrie--and there was no argument about the fact--come out of a notorious house, dishevelled and apparently drunk. It was a sad blow to him. A bad shock. The effects of it had kept him awake nearly all night. Betty was the apple of his eye. He was going to protect her at all costs, and he knew that in doing so he must bring great unhappiness into her life. He had believed in Peter Guthrie. He had seemed to him to be a big, strong, clean, honest, simple, true fellow who had gone straight and who meant to continue to go straight. It meant a tremendous amount, an altogether incalculable amount to him as a father to have found that his estimate was wrong. He realized perfectly well that his words had been harsh the night before. He detested to have been obliged to say them; but, for the sake of his little girl, he was not going back on them. The evidence was too strong. The telephone bell rang. He stalked across to it. "Well?" he said. "What's that? Who did you say? Send him up at once." And then, with his jaw set and his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he took up a stand in the middle of the studio and waited. It was Peter. He came in quietly and looked very tired. "Good morning, Mr. Townsend," he said. The answer was sharp and antagonistic. "I don't agree with you." Peter put down his hat and stick, went up to the artist and stood in front of him squarely and without fear. "You're going to withdraw what you said last night." "You think so?" "Yes." "Why?" "Because it was unjust and no man is hanged in these times before he's given a chance to defend himself." "No one is going to hang you, Peter Guthrie. You've hanged yourself." "No, no," said Peter, "that won't do. It isn't like you to adopt this attitude and I must ask you to treat me properly."