"Huh?" Bowman wheeled and saw us. "Why-ee! Di'n' know so many gen'lemen here." "Yes," the lawyer put a hand on his shoulder. "Conference--over the evidence in the Gilbert case. No time like the present for you to say--" "Hol' on a minute," Bowman raised a hand with dignity. "Cummings," said Dykeman disgustedly, "the man's drunk!" "No, no," owlishly. "'m not 'ntoxicated. Overcome with 'motion." He took a brace. "That woman there--'f I sh'd tell you--walk into hotel room, find her with three men! Three of 'em!" "How much of this are these ladies to stand for?" I demanded. "Ladies?" Bowman roared suddenly. "She's m' wife. Where's th' other man? Nothing 'gainst you gen'lmen. Where's he? I'll settle with him. Let that thing go long 'nough. Too long. Bring him out. I'll settle him now!" He dropped heavily into the chair Cummings shoved up behind him, stared around, drooped a bit, pulled himself together, and looked at us; then his head went forward on his neck, a long breath sounded-- "And you'll keep Worth Gilbert in jail, run the risk of a suit for false imprisonment--on that!" I wanted to know. "And plenty more," the lawyer held steady, but I saw his uneasiness with every snore Bowman drew. Barbara crossed to speak low and earnestly to Dykeman. I heard most of his answer--shaken, but disposed to hang on, "Girl like you is too much influenced by the man in the case. Hero worship--all that sort of thing. An outlaw is an outlaw. This isn't a personal matter. Mr. Cummings and I are merely doing our duty as good citizens." At that, I think it possible that Dykeman would have listened to reason; it was Cummings who broke in uncontrollably, "Barbara Wallace, I was your father's friend. I'm yours--if you'll let me be. I can't stand by while you entangle yourself with a criminal like Worth Gilbert. For your sake, if for no other reason, I would be determined to show him up as what he is: a thief--and his father's murderer." Silence in the room, except the irregular snoring of Bowman, a rustle and a deeply taken breath now and again where Mrs. Bowman sat, her head bent, quietly weeping. On this, Barbara who spoke out clearly, "Those were the last words you will ever say to me, Mr. Cummings, unless you should some time be man enough to take back your aspersions and apologize for them." He gave ground instantly. I had not thought that dry voice of his could contain what now came into it. "Barbara, I didn't mean--you don't understand--" But without turning her head, she spoke to me: "Mr. Boyne, will you take Laura and me home?" gathering up Mrs. Bowman's hat and veil, shaking the latter out, getting her charge ready as a mother might a child. "She's not going back to him--ever again." Her glance passed over the sleeping lump of a man in his chair. "Sarah'll make a place for her at our house to-night." "See here," Cummings got between us and the door. "I can't let you go like this. I feel--"