Accordingly, one evening after his railroad scheme was fairly inaugurated, he called on Mrs. Dillingham, determined to obtain from her what she knew.  He had witnessed for months her fondness for Harry Benedict.  The boy had apparently with the consent of the Balfours, been frequently in her house.  They had taken long drives together in the Park.  Mr. Belcher felt that there was a peculiar intimacy between the two, yet not one satisfactory word had he ever heard from the lady about her new pet.  He had become conscious, too, of a certain change in her.  She had been less in society, was more quiet than formerly, and more reticent in his presence, though she had never repulsed him.  He had caught fewer glimpses of that side of her nature and character which he had once believed was sympathetic with his own.  Misled by his own vanity into the constant belief that she was seriously in love with himself, he was determined to utilize her passion for his own purposes.  If she would not give kisses, she should give confidence.

“Mrs. Dillingham,” he said, “I have been waiting to hear something about your pauper protege, and I have come to-night to find out what you know about him and his father.”

“If I knew of anything that would be of real advantage to you, I would tell you, but I do not,” she replied.

“Well, that’s an old story.  Tell that to the marines.  I’m sick of it.”

Mrs. Dillingham’s face flushed.

“I prefer to judge for myself, if it’s all the same to you,” pursued the proprietor.  “You’ve had the boy in your hands for months, and you know him, through and through, or else you are not the woman I have taken you for.”

“You have taken me for, Mr. Belcher?”

“Nothing offensive.  Don’t roll up your pretty eyes in that way.”

Mrs. Dillingham was getting angry.

“Please don’t address me in that way again,” she said.

“Well, what the devil have you to do with the boy any way, if you are not at work for me?  That’s what I’d like to know.”

“I like him, and he is fond of me.”

“I don’t see how that helps me,” responded Mr. Belcher.

“It is enough for me that I enjoy it.”

“Oh, it is!”

“Yes, it is,” with an emphatic nod of the head.

“Perhaps you think that will go down with me.  Perhaps you are not acquainted with my way of doing business.”

“Are you doing business with me, Mr. Belcher?  Am I a partner of yours?  If I am, perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me—­business-like enough to tell me—­why you wish me to worm secrets out of this boy.”

It was Mr. Belcher’s turn to color.

“No, I will not.  I trust no woman with my affairs.  I keep my own councils.”

“Then do your own business,” snappishly.

“Mrs. Dillingham, you and I are friends—­destined, I trust, to be better friends—­closer friends—­than we have ever been.  This boy is of no consequence to you, and you cannot afford to sacrifice a man who can serve you more than you seem to know, for him.”