She led the way into the house, relieving Garry of his hat, and moving up an easy chair stood beside it until he had settled himself into its depths.

Again she bent over and kissed him:  “How are things to-day, dear? —­any better?” she inquired in a quavering voice.

“Some of them are better and some are worse, Cory; but there’s nothing for you to worry about.  That’s what I’ve been telling Jack.  How’s baby?  Anybody been here from the board?—­Any letters?”

“Baby’s all right,” the words came slowly, as if all utterance gave her pain.  “No, there are no letters.  Mr. McGowan was here, but I told him you wouldn’t be home till late.”

“Yes, I saw him,” replied Garry, dropping his voice suddenly to a monotone, an expression of pain followed by a shade of anxiety settling on his face:  McGowan and his affairs were evidently unpleasant subjects.  At this instant the cry of a child was heard.  Garry roused himself and turned his head.

“Listen—­that’s baby crying!  Better go to her, Cory,”

Garry waited until his wife had left the room, then he rose from, his chair, crossed to the sideboard, poured out three-quarters of a glass of raw whiskey and drank it without drawing a breath.

“That’s the first to-day, Jack.  I dare not touch it when I’m on a strain like this.  Can’t think clearly, and I want my head,—­all of it.  There’s a lot of sharks down in New York,—­skin you alive if they could.  I beg your pardon, old man,—­have a drop?”

Jack waved his hand in denial, his eyes still on his friend:  “Not now, Garry, thank you.”

Garry dropped the stopper into the decanter, pushed back the empty tumbler and began pacing the floor, halting now and then to toe some pattern in the carpet, talking all the time to himself in broken sentences, like one thinking aloud.  All Jack’s heart went out to his friend as he watched him.  He and Ruth were so happy.  All their future was so full of hope and promise, and Garry—­ brilliant, successful Garry,—­the envy of all his associates, so harassed and so wretched!

“Garry, sit down and listen to me,” Jack said at last.  “I am your oldest friend; no one you know thinks any more of you than I do, or will be more ready to help.  Now, what troubles you?”

“I tell you, Jack, I’m not troubled!”—­something of the old bravado rang in his voice,—­“except as everybody is troubled when he’s trying to straighten out something that won’t straighten.  I’m knocked out, that’s all,—­can’t you see it?”

“Yes, I see it,—­and that’s not all I see.  Is it your work here or in New York?  I want to know, and I’m going to know, and I have a right to know, and you are not going to bed until you tell me,—­ nor will I. I can and will help you, and so will Mr. MacFarlane, and Uncle Peter, and everybody I ask.  What’s gone wrong?—­Tell me!”

Garry continued to walk the floor.  Then he wheeled suddenly and threw himself into his chair.