He lifted his eyes again, as some one came hurrying through the cottage door.  It was the Flopper.  And then to his surprise, he found himself being pushed unceremoniously from the porch and pulled excitedly behind the trellis.

“What’s the matter with you!” he demanded angrily.  “Are you crazy!”

“T’ank de Lord youse have showed up!” gasped the Flopper.  “Say, honest, I can’t do nothin’ wid him—­he’s got me near bughouse.”

“Who?”—­Madison scowled irritably.

“De Patriarch, of course.  He’s noivous, an’ gettin’ worse all de time.  He won’t eat an’ he won’t keep still.  He wants Helena, an’ he keeps writin’ her name on de slate—­he’s got me going fer fair.”

“Well, I’m not Helena!” growled Madison.  “Why doesn’t she go to him?”

“Now wouldn’t dat sting youse!” ejaculated the Flopper.  “How’s she goin’ to him when she ain’t here?”

“Not here?” repeated Madison sharply.  “Where is she?”

The Flopper looked down his nose.

“I dunno,” said he.

Madison stared at him for a moment—­then he reached out and caught the Flopper’s arm in a sudden and far from gentle grip.

“Out with it!” he snapped.

“I dunno where she is,” said the Flopper, with some reluctance.  “She ain’t back yet, dat’s all.”

“Back from where?”—­Madison’s grip tightened.

The Flopper blinked.

“Aw, wot’s de use!” he blurted out, as though his mind, suddenly made up, brought him unbounded relief.  “Youse’ll find it out anyhow.  Say, she went off wid Thornton in de buzz-wagon yesterday, an’ I put de Patriarch to bed last night ‘cause she wasn’t back, an’ dat’s wot’s de matter wid him, she ain’t showed up since an’ he’s near off his chump, an’—­fer God’s sake let go my arm, Doc, youse’re breakin’ it!”

A sort of cold frenzy seemed to seize Madison.  He was perfectly calm, he felt himself perfectly calm and composed.  Off all night with Thornton—­eh?  Funny, wasn’t it?  She’d gone pretty far at last—­gone the limit.

“Why didn’t you send me word this morning?”—­was that his own voice speaking?  Well, he wouldn’t have recognized it—­but he was perfectly calm nevertheless.

“Fer God’s sake let go my arm,” whimpered the Flopper.  “I—­I ain’t no squealer, dat’s why.”

Madison’s arm fell away—­to his side.  He felt a whiteness creeping to his face and lips, felt his lips twitch, felt the fingers of his hands curl in and the nails begin to press into the palms.

“Mabbe,” suggested the Flopper timidly, “mabbe dere was an accident.”

Madison made no answer.

The Flopper shifted from foot to foot and licked his lips, stealing frightened glances at Madison’s face.

“Wot—­wot’ll I do wid de Patriarch?” he stammered out miserably.

And then Madison smiled at him—­not happily, but eloquently.

“Swipe me!” mumbled the Flopper, as he backed out from the trellis.  “Dis love game’s fierce—­an’ mabbe I don’t know!  ‘Sposin’ she’d been Mamie an’ me the Doc—­’sposin’ it had!” He gulped hastily.  “Swipe me!” said the Flopper with emotion.