Harry West sighed and said:  “I don’t smoke, Bub.  Give me a cigarette.”

Bubbles accommodated his friend with eagerness.

“And now,” said West, “the road’s clear to Marrow Lane; better slip down and see if Rose has any word for us.  I’ll keep a good ear on Blizzard.”

Bubbles changed from his buttons to his street-jacket, and departed by the back stairs.  Harry West took a small automatic pistol from his breast pocket and played with it, but in the expression of the young man’s face was nothing bellicose or threatening; only a kind of gentle, patient misery.

He passed fifteen minutes in taking quick aims with the little automatic pistol at the roses on the wall-paper.  Short of actual target-practice, he knew by experience that this was the best way to keep the hand and eye in touch with each other.  He let his thoughts run as they would.  And presently he heard the sound of Bubbles’s feet upon the back stairs.

“All serene here,” said West.

“All serene there,” said Bubbles, and he produced a slip of paper upon which Rose had written: 

“Don’t come so often.  You’ve been noticed.  He’ll tell me things before long—­or wring my neck.”

“She worked her hands some,” said Bubbles, and he made letters of the deaf and dumb alphabet upon his fingers.  “She said O’Hagan’s in the city.  They had him to eat with them last night.  He’s growed a beard, and trained off twenty pounds, so’s not to be knowed.”

The air of revery had left Harry West.  “O’Hagan in the East!” he exclaimed, rather with exhilaration than excitement.  “Things are coming to a head.”

“Yep,” said Bubbles, “and we don’t know what things is—­”

“Bubbles!  Oh, Bubbles!”

The boy disappeared in the direction of the studio.

“Mr. Blizzard has gone,” said Barbara.  “Ask Mr. West if he will speak to me a moment.”

Mr. West would; and he, the athlete, the man of trained poise, actually overturned a chair in his willingness.

“Mr. West,” she said, “you know all sorts of things about people, don’t you?  And if you don’t know them, you can find them out, can’t you?”

“Sometimes, Miss Barbara.”

“I want to know about the man who comes here to pose—­not vague things, but facts; who his people were, what turned him against the world.”

“You’re troubled, Miss Barbara?”

“I am terribly troubled.  He has told me a terrible story.  But how do I know if it’s true or not?  If it’s true, he ought not to be hounded and hunted, Mr. West; he ought to be pitied.”

“Then I’m sure it’s not true,” West smiled quietly.  “What did he tell you?”

“No matter.  But will you find out what you can about him?”

“Why, yes, of course.  But believe me, it’s not his beginnings that are of importance.  It’s his subsequent achievements and his schemes for the future.”

“Another thing,” she said, “I’m sure he means no harm where I’m concerned.  He has never known that I have a protector within call, and yet his whole attitude toward me has been gentle, humorous, and even chivalrous.  I think,” and the color came into her cheeks, “that he feels a fatherly sort of affection for me.  So thank you for all the trouble you’ve taken.”