By noon it was extensively rumored that Wentworth & Son would close their doors.  The firm which had lasted for three generations, and whose name had been the synonym for honor and for philanthropy, which had stood as the type of the highest that can exist in commerce, would go down.  Men spoke of it with a regret which did them honor—­hard men who rarely expressed regret for the losses of another.

It was rumored, too, that Wickersham & Company must assign; but this caused little surprise and less regret.  Aaron Wickersham had had friends, but his son had not succeeded to them.

Keith, having determined to talk to Alice Lancaster about Lois, was calling on the former a day or two after her interview with Wickersham.  She was still somewhat disturbed over it, and showed it in her manner so clearly that Keith asked what was the trouble.

It was nothing very much, she said.  Only she had broken finally with a friend she had known a long time, and such things upset her.

Keith was sympathetic, and suddenly, to his surprise, she broke down and began to cry.  He had never seen her weep before since she sat, as a girl, in the pine-woods and he lent her his handkerchief to dry her tears.  Something in the association gave him a feeling of unwonted tenderness.  She had not appeared to him so soft, so feminine, in a long time.  He essayed to comfort her.  He, too, had broken with an old friend, the friend of a lifetime, and he would never get over it.

“Mine was such a blow to me,” she said, wiping her eyes; “such cruel things were said to me.  I did not think any one but a woman would have said such biting things to a woman.”

“It was Ferdy Wickersham, I know,” said Keith, his eyes contracting; “but what on earth could he have said?  What could he have dared to say to wound you so?”

“He said all the town was talking about me and Norman.”  She began to cry again.  “Norman, dear old Norman, who has been more like a brother to me than any one I have ever known, and whom I would give the world to bring back happiness to.”

“He is a scoundrel!” exclaimed Keith.  “I have stood all—­more than I ever expected to stand from any man living; but if he is attacking women”—­he was speaking to himself rather than to her—­“I will unmask him.  He is not worth your notice,” he said kindly, addressing her again.  “Women have been his prey ever since I knew him, when he was but a young boy.”  Mrs. Lancaster dried her eyes.

“You refer to the story that he had married that poor girl and abandoned her?”

“Yes—­partly that.  That is the worst thing I know of him.”

“But that is not true.  However cruel he is, that accusation is unfounded.  I know that myself.”

“How do you know it?” asked Keith, in surprise.

“He told me the whole story:  explained the thing to my satisfaction.  It was a poor crazy girl who claimed that he married her; said Mr. Rimmon had performed the ceremony She was crazy.  I saw Mr. Rimmon’s letter denying the whole thing.”