“Mr. Ellis,” she called in a shrill voice, having directed her coachman to draw up at the curb as she saw the young man approaching, “come here.  I want to speak to you.”

Ellis came up to the buggy and stood uncovered beside it.

“People are saying,” said Mrs. Ochiltree, “that Tom Delamere is drinking hard, and has to be carried home intoxicated, two or three times a week, by old Mr. Delamere’s man Sandy.  Is there any truth in the story?”

“My dear Mrs. Ochiltree, I am not Tom Delamere’s keeper.  Sandy could tell you better than I.”

“You are dodging my question, Mr. Ellis.  Sandy wouldn’t tell me the truth, and I know that you wouldn’t lie,—­you don’t look like a liar.  They say Tom is gambling scandalously.  What do you know about that?”

“You must excuse me, Mrs. Ochiltree.  A great deal of what we hear is mere idle gossip, and the truth is often grossly exaggerated.  I’m a member of the same club with Delamere, and gentlemen who belong to the same club are not in the habit of talking about one another.  As long as a man retains his club membership, he’s presumed to be a gentleman.  I wouldn’t say anything against Delamere if I could.”

“You don’t need to,” replied the old lady, shaking her finger at him with a cunning smile.  “You are a very open young man, Mr. Ellis, and I can read you like a book.  You are much smarter than you look, but you can’t fool me.  Good-morning.”

Mrs. Ochiltree drove immediately to her niece’s, where she found Mrs. Carteret and Clara at home.  Clara was very fond of the baby, and was holding him in her arms.  He was a fine baby, and bade fair to realize the bright hopes built upon him.

“You hold a baby very naturally, Clara,” chuckled the old lady.  “I suppose you are in training.  But you ought to talk to Tom.  I have just learned from Mr. Ellis that Tom is carried home drunk two or three times a week, and that he is gambling in the most reckless manner imaginable.”

Clara’s eyes flashed indignantly.  Ere she could speak, Mrs. Carteret exclaimed:—­

“Why, Aunt Polly! did Mr. Ellis say that?”

“I got it from Dinah,” she replied, “who heard it from her husband, who learned it from a waiter at the club.  And”—­

“Pshaw!” said Mrs. Carteret, “mere servants’ gossip.”

“No, it isn’t, Olivia.  I met Mr. Ellis on the street, and asked him point blank, and he didn’t deny it.  He’s a member of the club, and ought to know.”

“Well, Aunt Polly, it can’t be true.  Tom is here every other night, and how could he carry on so without showing the signs of it? and where would he get the money?  You know he has only a moderate allowance.”

“He may win it at cards,—­it’s better to be born lucky than rich,” returned Mrs. Ochiltree.  “Then he has expectations, and can get credit.  There’s no doubt that Tom is going on shamefully.”  Clara’s indignation had not yet found vent in speech; Olivia had said all that was necessary, but she had been thinking rapidly.  Even if all this had been true, why should Mr. Ellis have said it?  Or, if he had not stated it directly, he had left the inference to be drawn.  It seemed a most unfair and ungentlemanly thing.  What motive could Ellis have for such an act?