“There isn’t--not the way you mean it,” Philip denied quickly. “You mustn’t trust any of us--not even me.” Then he took her round face between his hands and kissed her and put her aboard her train; and Bromley, having witnessed the parting, plodded on after the Follansbee group, shaking his head and muttering to himself. He had been hoping that Philip’s plunge into the depths had stopped with the whiskey bottle and the gaming tables, but here was proof positive that it hadn’t. It was a man-killing world, this world of the unfettered West, and the trail of the serpent was over it all. It was perhaps five minutes after the eastbound train had clanked out over the station switches when Philip lounged into Reddick’s office to lean upon the counter rail and watch the passenger agent as he fingered the keys of one of the lately introduced writing machines. Reddick stopped his two-finger performance and looked up to say, “Back again, are you?” “Yes,” said the lounger, “but not to stay; just to ease your mind. The girl you were telling me about: she is on her way back to her folks in Iowa, on the train that has just pulled out. I don’t believe you will have to check her trunk again.” “You went up to the Goguette’s and got her out?” “Yes.” Reddick thrust a hand over the railing. “Shake!” he said. “I wish there were more good devils like you in this rotten world--good devils with money to burn. I’d have done it myself, if I’d had the wherewithal. But it was too near pay-day for me.” “I know you would,” said Philip soberly; and as he turned to go: “When you hear of any more jams like that, just give me a tip, Reddick. As you say, I have money to burn, and I haven’t much else. ’Night.” XXIII HAVING seen the Follansbees and Stephen Drew off for their hotel, Bromley lingered on the broad station-plaza platform which served as a hack stand, knowing that Philip must pass this way on his return up-town. When Philip appeared at last, not through the station archway, but at the foot of the stair leading down from the offices on the second floor, the play-boy caught step with him. “I thought you’d show up if I waited long enough,” he began. Then, taking a leaf out of Philip’s own book of directness: “Who was the girl?” Philip’s smile was soberly tolerant. “So you were looking on, were you? What did you see?” “I saw you kiss her and put her on the train.” “Well?” “You mean it’s none of my business? I suppose it isn’t. But I did hope you’d stop short of the women, Phil.” “Why should I?” “For one reason, if for no other. You’ve been in love with Jean; though you may think you are not, you are still in love with her. How can you----” Another man might have said the few words which would have made all clear. But Philip Trask was of those who rub salt into their own wounds and find a certain gruesome satisfaction in the process.