It was not a pleasant call. Westbrook was stilted, Mr. Barrington plainly ill at ease, and Ethel the personification of chill politeness; yet she became cordiality itself when Martin appeared a little later. She chatted and laughed with the lawyer and sent merry shafts of wit across the room to Westbrook and her father. But when Westbrook had gone she lapsed into bored indifference and monosyllables. Mr. Barrington was called from the room after a time, leaving his daughter and Martin alone. The lawyer broached subject after subject with unvarying ill success, even music itself failing to awaken more than a passing interest. At last he said abruptly: “Queer chap—that Westbrook!” “Queer? Why?” almost snapped Miss Barrington. Martin raised his eyebrows. “How can you ask?” he returned. “You’ve seen him—you know him!” Miss Barrington gave the lawyer a swift glance. Just what did he mean? Had he noticed the change in Westbrook’s manner—his indifference—his coldness? Did he think that she——? Miss Barrington laughed softly. “Indeed, yes, Mr. Martin, I do know him—slightly, perhaps; but ‘queer’ is not the adjective I would have applied to him.” The lawyer leaned forward. “Miss Barrington, _what_ do you know of him? Did it ever occur to you how very little any of us know of this man?” The lady stirred uneasily. “Really, Mr. Martin, I know him for a gentleman, as you do—I might also add that he is quite a noted philanthropist, of late,” she added teasingly. “‘Philanthropist!’” scorned the lawyer. Miss Barrington’s manner instantly changed. “Mr. Westbrook is doing a world of good with his money; I admire him for it,” she said with decision. “Oh, of course,” returned the man smoothly. “Still, I wonder why—this sudden generosity!” “Sudden? It’s a long time since I first heard of Mr. Westbrook’s good deeds, Mr. Martin,” replied Miss Barrington, a vision of Pedler Jim and his hospital rising before her eyes. “H’m-m,” murmured the lawyer, his level gaze on her face, “you knew him before, perhaps—this man they—er—call ‘Westbrook.’” The lady sprang to her feet and crossed the room to the piano. “Oh, fie, Mr. Lawyer!” she laughed nervously. “I’m no poor victim on the witness stand. Come—let’s try this duet.” The man followed her and leaned his elbow on the piano, but he did not pick up the music nor take his eyes from her face. “You have known him before, then—under his other name, of course,” he hazarded. A swift red came into Ethel’s cheeks. “Perhaps—perhaps not! I really do not care to discuss it.” And she wheeled around upon the piano-stool and dashed into the prelude of the duet. Martin waited until her hands glided into the soft ripple of the accompaniment. “Then you, of all people, Miss Barrington,” he began again, “should know that this philanthropic mummery is nothing but a salve for his conscience. Admirable, I’m sure!” The music stopped with a crash.