“I have not,” replied Lane, turning sharply.  A slight chill went over him.  “I thought that club stuff was off.”

“Off—­nothing,” whispered Colonel Pepper, drawing Lane aside.  “Swann and his strong-arm gang just got foxy.  They quit for a while.  Now they’re rushing the girls in there—­say from four to five—­and in the evenings a little while, not too late.  Oh, they’re the slick bunch, picking out the ice cream soda hour when everybody’s downtown....  You run up to my rooms right now.  And I’ll gamble——­”

“I’ll go,” interrupted Lane, grimly.

Not fifteen minutes before he had seen his sister Lorna and a chum, Gail Williams, go into White’s place.  Lane’s pulse quickened.  As he started to go he ran into Blair Maynard who grasped at him:  “What’s hurry, old scout?”

“Blair, I’m never in a hurry if you want me.  But the fact is I’ve got rather urgent business.  How about to-morrow?”

“Sure.  Meet you here.  I just wanted to unload on you, Dare.  Looks as if my mother has hatched it up between Margie and our esteemed countryman, Richard Swann.”

It was not often that Lane cursed, but he did so now.

“But Blair, didn’t you tell your mother what this fellow is?” remonstrated Lane.

“Well, I’ll say I did,” replied Blair, sardonically.  “Cut no ice whatever.  She didn’t believe.  She didn’t care for any proofs.  All rich young men had their irregularities!...  Good God!  Doesn’t it make you sick?”

“But how about Holt Dalrymple?”

“Holt’s turned over a new leaf.  He’s working hard, and I think he has taken a tumble to himself.  Listen to this.  He met Margie with Dick Swann out at one of the lake dances—­Watkins’ Lake.  And he cut her dead.  I’m sorry for Margie.  She sure is rank poison these days....  Well, speak of the devil!”

Holt Dalrymple collided with them at the entrance of the inn.  The haggard, sullen, heated look that had characterized him was gone.  He was sunburned, and his dark eyes were bright.  He greeted his friends warmly.  They chatted for a moment.  Then Lane grew thoughtful, all the while gazing at Holt.

“What’s the idea?” queried that worthy, presently.  “Anything wrong with me?”

“Boy, you’re just great.  Seeing you has done me good....  You ask what’s the idea.  Holt, would you do me a favor?”

“Would I?  Listen to the guy,” returned young Dalrymple.  “Daren, I’d do any old thing for you.”

“Do you happen to know Bessy Bell?” went on Lane.

Dalrymple quickened with surprise.  “Yes, I know her.  Some little peach!...  I almost ran into her down on West Street a few minutes ago.  She wore a white veil.  She didn’t see me, or recognize me.  But I sure knew her.  She was almost running.  I bet a million to myself she had a date at the club.”

“You lose, Holt,” replied Lane, shortly.  “Bessy Bell is one Middleville kid who has come clean through this mess.”