“He must have.  Else how could she——­”

“Oh, no, Cora herself never talks upon any subject but one; she never listens to any other either.”

“Then how in thunder did he——­”

“If Cora asks you if you think it will rain,” interrupted Vilas, “doesn’t she really seem to be asking:  `Do you love me?  How much?’ Suppose Mr. Corliss is an expert in the same line.  Of course he can talk about oil!”

“He strikes me,” said Trumble, “as just about the slickest customer that ever hit this town.  I like Richard Lindley, and I hope he’ll see his fifty thousand dollars again. I wouldn’t have given Corliss thirty cents.”

“Why do you think he’s a crook?”

“I don’t say that,” returned Trumble.  “All I know about him is that he’s done some of the finest work to get fifty thousand dollars put in his hands that I ever heard of.  And all anybody knows about him is that he lived here seventeen years ago, and comes back claiming to know where there’s oil in Italy.  He shows some maps and papers and gets cablegrams signed `Moliterno.’  Then he talks about selling the old Corliss house here, where the Madisons live, and putting the money into his oil company:  he does that to sound plausible, but I have good reason to know that house was mortgaged to its full value within a month after his aunt left it to him.  He’ll not get a cent if it’s sold.  That’s all.  And he’s got Cora Madison so crazy over him that she makes life a hell for poor old Lindley until he puts all he’s saved into the bubble.  The scheme may be all right.  How do I know?  There’s no way to tell, without going over there, and Corliss won’t let anybody do that—­oh, he’s got a plausible excuse for it!  But I’m sorry for Lindley:  he’s so crazy about Cora, he’s soft.  And she’s so crazy about Corliss she’s soft!  Well, I used to be crazy about her myself, but I’m not soft—­I’m not the Lindley kind of loon, thank heaven!”

“What kind are you, Trumble?” asked Ray, mildly.

“Not your kind either,” retorted the other going to the door.  “She cut me on the street the other day; she’s quit speaking to me.  If you’ve got any money, why don’t you take it over to the hotel and give it to Corliss?  She might start speaking to you again.  I’m going to lunch!” He slammed the door behind him.

Ray Vilas, left alone, elevated his heels to the sill, and stared out of the window a long time at a gravelled roof which presented little of interest.  He replenished his glass and his imagination frequently, the latter being so stirred that when, about three o’clock, he noticed the inroads he had made upon the bottle, tears of self-pity came to his eyes.  “Poor little drunkard!” he said aloud.  “Go ahead and do it.  Isn’t anything you won’t do!” And, having washed his face at a basin in a corner, he set his hat slightly upon one side, picked up a walking stick and departed jauntily, and, to the outward eye, presentably sober.