Nothing tangible, it is safe to say, came with Garry’s share of the estate—­and he got it all.  That is, nothing he could exchange for value received—­no houses or lots, or stocks or bonds.  It was the intangible that proved his richest possession, viz.:—­a certain buoyancy of spirits; a cheery, optimistic view of life; a winning personality and the power of both making and holding friends.  With this came another asset—­the willingness to take chances, and still a third—­an absolute belief in his luck.  Down at the bottom of the box littered with old papers, unpaid tax bills and protested notes—­all valueless—­was a fourth which his father used to fish out when every other asset failed—­a certain confidence in the turn of a card.

But the virtues and the peccadilloes of their ancestors, we may be sure, were not interesting, our two young men as they swung up the Avenue arm in arm, this particular afternoon, the sidewalks crowded with the fashion of the day, the roadway blocked with carriages.  Nor did any passing objects occupy their attention.

Garry’s mind was on Corinne, and what he would tell her, and how she would look as she listened, the pretty head tucked on one side, her sparkling eyes drinking in every word of his story, although he knew she wouldn’t believe one-half of it.  Elusive and irritating as she sometimes was, there was really nobody exactly like Miss Corinne.

Jack’s mind had resumed its normal tone.  Garry’s merry laugh and good-natured ridicule had helped, so had the discovery that none of his friends had had anything to do with Gilbert’s fall.  After all, he said to himself, as he strode up the street beside his friend, it was “none of his funeral,” none of his business, really.  Such things went on every day and in every part of the world.  Neither was it his Uncle Arthur’s.  That was the most comforting part of all.

Corinne’s voice calling over the banisters:  “Is that you, Jack?” met the two young men as they handed their hats to the noiseless Frederick.  Both craned their necks and caught sight of the Wren’s head framed by the hand-rail and in silhouette against the oval sky-light in the roof above.

“Yes, and Garry’s here, too.  Come down.”

The patter of little feet grew louder, then the swish of silken skirts, and with a spring she was beside them.

“No, don’t you say a word, Garry.  I’m not going to listen and I won’t forgive you no matter what you say.”  She had both of his hands now.

“Ah, but you don’t know, Miss Corinne.  Has Jack told you?”

“Yes, told me everything; that you had a big supper and everybody stamped around the room; that Mr. Morris gave you a ring, or something” (Garry held up his finger, but she wasn’t ready to examine it yet), “and that some of the men wanted to celebrate it, and that you went to the club and stayed there goodness knows how long—­all night, so Mollie Crane told me.  Paul, her brother,