He tried to control his anger.

“Will you kindly explain to me by just what right you say this,” he sneered—­“except, possibly, that you’re jealous because Miss Presson chose me as her escort.”

“I have a right as a friend of her mother, if nothing else!  I am keeping this thing as still as I can for your sake, for in this case protecting you means protecting her.  I don’t want to say any more!  But sudden illness must prevent you from accompanying Miss Presson into public at that ball.”

Harlan beat a palm upon his own breast.

“I’ve had enough of this, Linton.  You tell me what you’re driving at.”

It was plain that Linton hated to be more explicit.  This culprit did not seem to quail before vague accusation, as he had expected him to do.  He was faced by a young man whose face was lighted by wrath, curiosity, and kindred emotions that were obviously not those of guilt.

“Let me say this in my own defence,” pleaded Linton.  “Spinney was going right to Mr. and Mrs. Presson with the story.  I got it from him almost by accident.  We were talking over our railroad bill this evening, and he mentioned your stand.  Then he out with the story that he picked up when he was in Fort Canibas.  I do not listen to gossip, Mr. Thornton, but it is plain that Spinney has facts.  I have inquired in a prudent way of other men from your section.  He has the story, but what they say confirms it.”

Harlan listened, his blank amazement depriving him of speech.

“I’ve said enough now, haven’t I?” asked Linton, significantly.

“No, by God, you haven’t!” shouted the other, coming out of his lethargy of astonishment.  The recollection of Spinney’s sinister hints came to him.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean that a man who will fool and throw over a girl in a way that drives her away from home and friends is no fit escort—­”

He got no further.  He knew a thoroughly maddened and dangerous man when he saw one.  He stepped back when Harlan dashed at him, and Thornton halted of his own accord.  After a time he calmed himself enough to speak.

“I’ll not begin with you, Linton.  I’ll begin with the man who started that damnable lie.  Oh, that—­that—!” He flailed his arms about his head, unable to express himself.  “You’ve been lied to.  You don’t know any better than to say that.  If you hadn’t been jealous you’d never have brought the story to me.  I’ll make allowances,” he raved on; “but the man who started that story will swallow it with teeth and blood mixed.”  He stamped about the room.  It was so horrible that he could not grasp the enormity of the lie all at once.

Linton was impressed but not routed.  He waited till Harlan was quieter.

“I hope you’ll get it straightened out,” he said, coldly.  “But with a story like that extant, of course you’ll see the wisdom of the course I’ve suggested.  You cannot afford to drag Miss Presson’s name into your affair.”