“He sent this man to New York to look up my past.  In order to earn his money he brought back this lie, which is half a truth.  Whether McQuade believes it or not is of no matter; it serves his purpose.  Now, John!”

John made no reply.  With his hands (one still clutching the letters) behind his back he walked the length of the room and returned.

“Will you take my word, which you have always found loyal, or the word of a man who has written himself down as a rascal, a briber, and a blackleg?”

John put out his empty hand and laid it on Warrington’s shoulder.

“You’re a good man, Dick.  Dissipation is sometimes a crucible that separates the gold from the baser metals.  It has done that to you.  You are a good man, an honorable man.  In coming to me like this you have shown yourself to be courageous as well.  There was a moment when the sight of you filled my heart with murder.  It was the night after I received that letter.  I’ve been watching you, watching, watching.  Well, I would stake my chance of eternity on your honesty.  I take your word; I should have taken it, had you nothing to prove your case.  That night I ran into Bolles. ...  Well, he uttered a vile insult, and I all but throttled him.  Here’s my hand, Dick.”

The hand-grip that followed drew a gasp from Warrington.

“Not every man would be so good about it, John.  What shall we do about McQuade?”

“I was about to say that I shall see McQuade within an hour,” in a tone that did not promise well for McQuade.

“Wait a day or two, John.  If you meet him now, I believe you will do him bodily harm, and he has caused enough trouble, God knows.”

“But not to meet him!  Not to cram this paper down his vile throat!  I had not considered that sacrifice.  And I can not touch him by law, either.”

“But you can silence him effectually.  This business will end right here.”

“You are right,” said John with reluctance.  “If I met him in this rage.  I should probably kill him.”

“Let us go and pay him a visit together, John,” Warrington suggested.  “I can manage to keep in between you.”

“That’s better.  We’ll go together.”  And John went for his hat.  Then he ran up stairs quickly.  There was a loving heart up there that ached, and he alone could soothe it.

And then the two men left the house.  As they strode down the street, side by side, step by step, their thoughts were as separate as the two poles.  To the one his wife was still his wife, in all the word implied; to the other there was only a long stretch of years that he must pass through alone, alone,—­not even the man at his side would ever be quite the same to him, nor his wife.  There was a shadow; it would always walk between them.

“Remember, Dick, Patty must never know anything of this.  Nothing must come between her and my wife.”

“I shall say nothing to any one, John.”  Who had written to Patty?