“Why, you dear Corinne,—­Jack and I are not like that.  What has gone wrong,—­tell me,” she urged.

For a brief instant Corinne made no answer.  Once she tried to speak but the words died in her throat.  Then, lifting up her hands appealingly, she faltered out: 

“I only said that I—­Oh, Ruth!—­I am so wretched!” and sank back on the lounge in an agony of tears.

CHAPTER XXVI

At ten o’clock that same night Jack went to the station to meet Garry.  He and Ruth had talked over the strange scene—­ unaccountable to both of them—­and had determined that Jack should see Garry at once.

“I must help him, Ruth, no matter at what cost.  Garry has been my friend for years; he has been taken up with his work, and so have I, and we have drifted apart a little, but I shall never forget him for his kindness to me when I first came to New York.  I would never have known Uncle Peter but for Garry, or Aunt Felicia, or—­ you, my darling.”

Jack waited under the shelter of the overhanging roof until the young architect stepped from the car and crossed the track.  Garry walked with the sluggish movement of a tired man—­hardly able to drag his feet after him.

“I thought I’d come down to meet you, Garry,” Jack cried in his old buoyant tone.  “It’s pretty rough on you, old fellow, working so hard.”

Garry raised his head and peered into the speaker’s face.

“Why, Jack!” he exclaimed in a surprised tone; the voice did not sound like Garry’s.  “I didn’t see you in the train.  Have you been in New York too?” He evidently understood nothing of Jack’s explanation.

“No, I came down to meet you.  Corinne was at Mr. MacFarlane’s to-day, and said you were not well,—­and so I thought I’d walk home with you.”

“Oh, thank you, old man, but I’m all right.  Corinne’s nervous;—­ you mustn’t mind her.  I’ve been up against it for two or three weeks now,—­lot of work of all kinds, and that’s kept me a good deal from home.  I don’t wonder Cory’s worried, but I can’t help it—­not yet.”

They had reached an overhead light, and Jack caught a clearer view of the man.  What he saw sent a shiver through him.  A great change had come over his friend.  His untidy dress,—­always so neat and well kept; his haggard eyes and shambling, unsteady walk, so different from his springy, debonair manner, all showed that he had been and still was under some terrible mental strain.  That he had not been drinking was evident from his utterance and gait.  This last discovery when his condition was considered, disturbed him most of all, for he saw that Garry was going through some terrible crisis, either professional or financial.

As the two advanced toward the door of the station on their way to the street, the big, burly form of McGowan, the contractor, loomed up.

“I heard you wouldn’t be up till late, Mr. Minott,” he exclaimed gruffly, blocking Garry’s exit to the street.  “I couldn’t find you at the Council or at your office, so I had to come here.  We haven’t had that last payment on the church.  The vouchers is all ready for your signature, so the head trustee says,—­and the money’s where you can git at it.”