“Goin’ take Carmen buggy ride in the country, ain’t he?  Good ole Tor’dor!” he quavered loudly, clutching Corliss’s shoulder.  “How much you s’pose he pays f’ that buzz-buggy by the day, jeli’m’n?  Naughty Tor’dor, stole thousand dollars from me—­makin’ presents—­diamond cresses.  Tor’dor, I hear you been playing cards.  Tha’s sn’t nice.  Tor’dor, you’re not a goo’ boy at all—­you know you oughtn’t waste Dick Lindley’s money like that!”

Corliss set his open hand upon the drunkard’s breast and sent him gyrating and plunging backward.  Some one caught the grotesque figure as it fell.

“Oh, my God,” screamed Ray, “I haven’t got a gun on me!  He knows I haven’t got my gun with me! Why haven’t I got my gun with me?”

They hustled him away, and Corliss, enraged and startled, passed on.  As he sped the car up Corliss Street, he decided to anticipate his letter to Moliterno by a cable.  He had stayed too long.

Cora looked charming in a new equipment for November motoring; yet it cannot be said that either of them enjoyed the drive.  They lunched a dozen miles out from the city at an establishment somewhat in the nature of a roadside inn; and, although its cuisine was quite unknown to Cora’s friend, Mrs. Villard (an eager amateur of the table), they were served with a meal of such unusual excellence that the waiter thought it a thousand pities patrons so distinguished should possess such poor appetites.

They returned at about three in the afternoon, and Cora descended from the car wearing no very amiable expression.

“Why won’t you come in now?” she asked, looking at him angrily.  “We’ve got to talk things out.  We’ve settled nothing whatever.  I want to know why you can’t stop.”

“I’ve got some matters to attend to, and——­”

“What matters?” She shot him a glance of fierce skepticism.

“Are you packing to get out?”

“Cora!” he cried reproachfully, “how can you say things like that to me!”

She shook her head.  “Oh, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least!  How do I know what you’ll do?  For all I know, you may be just that kind of a man.  You said you ought to be going——­”

“Cora,” he explained, gently, “I didn’t say I meant to go.  I said only that I thought I ought to, because Moliterno will be needing me in Basilicata.  I ought to be there, since it appears that no more money is to be raised here.  I ought to be superintending operations in the oil-field, so as to make the best use of the little I have raised.”

“You?” she laughed.  “Of course I didn’t have anything to do with it!”

He sighed deeply.  “You know perfectly well that I appreciate all you did.  We don’t seem to get on very well to-day——­”

“No!” She laughed again, bitterly.  “So you think you’ll be going, don’t you?”

“To my rooms to write some necessary letters.”