Bince went white.  “Don’t believe anything that fellow says,” he exclaimed excitedly:  “he’s nothing but a crook.  Elizabeth, can’t you make your father realize that he ought to get rid of the man, that he ought to leave things to me instead of trusting an absolute stranger?”

“I have,” replied the girl, “and he was on the point of doing it until Torrance told him this story.”

“Something will have to be done,” said Bince, “at once.  I’ll be over to see your father in the morning.  Good-by, dear,” and he hung up the receiver.

After Jimmy left the Compton home he started to walk down-town.  It was too early to go to his dismal little room on Indiana Avenue.  The Lizard was still away.  He had seen nothing of him for weeks, and with his going he had come to realize that he had rather depended upon the Lizard for company.  He was full of interesting stories of the underworld and his dry humor and strange philosophy amused and entertained Jimmy.

And now as he walked along the almost deserted drive after his recent unpleasant scene with Elizabeth Compton he felt more blue and lonely than he had for many weeks.  He craved human companionship, and so strong was the urge that his thoughts naturally turned to the only person other than the Lizard who seemed to have taken any particularly kindly interest in him.  Acting on the impulse he turned west at the first cross street until he came to a drugstore.  Entering a telephone-booth he called a certain number and a moment later had his connection.

“Is that you, Edith?” he asked, and at the affirmative reply, “this is Jimmy Torrance.  I’m feeling terribly lonesome.  I was wondering if I couldn’t drag you out to listen to my troubles?”

“Surest thing you know,” cried the girl.  “Where are you?” He told her.  “Take a Clark Street car,” she told him, “and I’ll be at the corner of North Avenue by the time you get there.”

As the girl hung up the receiver and turned from the phone a slightly quizzical expression reflected some thought that was in her mind.  “I wonder,” she said as she returned to her room, “if he is going to be like the rest?”

She seated herself before her mirror and critically examined her reflection in the glass.  She knew she was good-looking.  No need of a mirror to tell her that.  Her youth and her good looks had been her stock in trade, and yet this evening she appraised her features most critically, and as with light fingers she touched her hair, now in one place and now in another, she found herself humming a gay little tune and she realized that she was very happy.

When Jimmy Torrance alighted from the Clark Street car he found Edith waiting for him.

“It was mighty good of you,” he said.  “I don’t know when I have had such a fit of blues, but I feel better already.”

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“I just had a talk with Mr. Compton,” he replied.  “He sent for me and I had to tell him something that I didn’t want to tell him, although he’s got to find it out sooner or later anyway.”