He dined alone, he could not have said where, and an idle impulse for the lights and bustle of the great thoroughfare sent him strolling down Broadway. It was too early for the crowd, and he found himself guessing vaguely as to the characteristics of the couples that met and passed him. That tall, slender lad, for instance, with such a hint of Bob--poor, troublesome Bob!--in his loose, telltale swagger, what had led him to the dark-eyed creature that tapped her high heels beside him? As she came under the light, one saw better; her flashing smile, her careless carriage of the head, her broad sweep of shoulder, had a certain charm--great heavens, it was Bob steadying himself on her arm! A moment, and the familiar drawl reached his ear: "An' so you always want to choose mos' prom'nent place, every time, an' you're safe's a church. No chance to meet y'r dear frien's----" Dillon strode to his side, raising his hat to the surprised woman. "I beg your pardon, Bob, but had you forgotten your engagement this evening?" he said smoothly. Bob stopped, glared a moment uncertainly, but the scrupulous courtesy of Dillon's bearing had its intended effect. "What--what engagement?" he inquired suspiciously. "Friend o' mine," he added to his companion. "Haven't you met Stebbins? He--he was expecting you." Lawrence felt his heart sink. Where was Stebbins? Oh, fool, to have lost hold at the eleventh hour! "Stebbins? Stebbins?" Bob murmured to himself. "Ah, yes; the beastly boat got afire, and he had to go down; I'm going too, after a while--too early yet--take a little walk, first, with Miss--Miss----" He paused, and stared thoughtfully at the woman. "I don't seem to just recall your name," he said pleasantly. "Would you mind telling me, so that I can introduce you? Bad form, his poking in, though, terribly bad form." Dillon noted with anger that Bob was at his most argumentative, obstinate stage; at this point, if he felt the necessity, he could speak most correctly and clearly, by giving some thought to the matter, and it was almost impossible to alter his determinations. "My name is Williams," said the woman. Dillon bowed. "What have you had, Bob?" he inquired, moving along with them. "Oh, only a cocktail--here and there--Miss--Miss Willis likes 'em as well as anything. About time we had another?" he suggested, eyeing Lawrence combatively. The older man stopped dead. A weary despair of the whole business seized him. It was all up, then. Even if he went about with the boy, which Bob would hardly allow, his condition next morning would be all too apparent. And then Uncle Owen would wash his hands of it all. Aunt Sarah would never consent to any institutional cure. Helena would never marry while Bob needed her--thank God, she had never suspected the woman! As if in answer to his thoughts, Bob complained loudly: