Ruth went home in that weakening anxiety which is most felt by the helpless. On the way she bought an evening paper, but there was nothing new in it. After a dinner hardly touched she went into the street and got a ten o'clock edition. It had the story of Tom's release on bail. "Why, the dear old bear!" she gasped, as she discovered that Mr. Driscoll had gone Tom's bond. She hurried to her room and in utter abandonment to her emotion wrote Tom a note asking him to call the following evening. The next morning Tom, discharged but half an hour before, walked into Ruth's office. He had stood several minutes in front of the building before he had gained sufficient control to carry him through the certain meeting with her. She went red at sight of him, and rose in a throbbing confusion, but subdued herself to greet him with a friendly cordiality. "It's been a long time since I've seen you," she said, giving him her hand. It was barely touched, then dropped. "Yes. I've been--very--busy," Tom mumbled, his big chest heaving. It seemed that his mind, his will, were slipping away from him. He seized his only safety. "Is Mr. Driscoll in?" "Yes." Suddenly chilled, she went into Mr. Driscoll's room. "He says he's too busy to see you," she said on her return; and then a little of her greeting smile came back: "But I think you'd better go in, anyhow." As Tom entered Mr. Driscoll looked up with something that was meant to be a scowl. He had had one uncomfortable scene already that morning. "Didn't I say I was busy?" he asked sharply. "I was told you were. But you didn't think I'd go away without thanking you?" "It's a pity a man can't make a fool of himself without being slobbered over. Well, if you've got to, out with it! But cut it short." Tom expressed his thanks warmly, and obediently made them brief. "But I don't know what you did it for?" he ended. "About fifty reporters have been asking that same thing." The telephone in Ruth's office began to ring. He waited expectantly. "Mr. Bobbs wants to speak to you," said Ruth, appearing at the door. "Tell him I'm out--or dead," he ordered, and went on to Tom: "And he's about the seventeenth contractor that's asked the same question, and tried to walk on my face. Maybe because I don't love Foley. I don't know myself. A man goes out of his head now and then, I suppose." His eyes snapped crossly. "If you're sorry this morning, withdraw the bail and I'll----" "Don't you try to be a fool, too! All I ask of you is, don't skip town, and don't blow up any more buildings." Tom gave his word, smiling into the cross face; and was withdrawing, when Mr. Driscoll stood up. "When this strike you started is over come around to see me." He held out his hand; his grasp was warm and tight. "Good-by."