“Yes,” said the other; “she’s been threatening to do it for a long time.  Jealous.  Mighty good sort of a girl, though, in lots of ways.  Only yesterday I talked with her and almost thought I’d calmed her out of it.  But you can’t tell with some women.  They’ll brighten up and talk straight and seem sensible, one minute, and promise to behave, and mean it too, and the next, there they go, making a scene, cutting somebody or killing themselves!  You can’t count on them.  But that’s not to the point, exactly, I expect.  You’d better keep away from the `Straw-Cellar.’  If you’d been caught with the rest you’d have had a hard time, and they’d have found out your real name, too, because it’s pretty serious on account of your dancing with her when she did it, and the Canaan papers would have got hold of it and you wouldn’t be invited to Judge Pike’s any more, Eugene.”

Eugene dropped his arm from his eyes and stared into the face of his step-brother.

“Joe Louden!” he gasped.

“I’ll never tell,” said Joe.  “You’d better keep out of all this sort.  You don’t understand it, and you don’t—­you don’t do it because you care.”  He smiled wanly, his odd distorted smile of friendliness.  “When you go back you might tell father I’m all right.  I’m working through a law-school here—­and remember me to Norbert Flitcroft,” he finished, with a chuckle.

Eugene covered his eyes again and groaned.

“It’s all right,” Joe assured him.  “You’re as safe as if it had never happened.  And I expect” —­he went on, thoughtfully—­“I expect, maybe, you’d prefer not to say you’d seen me, when you go back to Canaan.  Well, that’s all right.  I don’t suppose father will be asking after me—­exactly.”

“No, he doesn’t,” said Eugene, still white and shaking.  “Don’t stand talking.  I’m sick.”

“Of course,” returned Joe.  “But there’s one thing I would like to ask you—­”

“Your father’s health is perfect, I believe.”

“It—­it—­it was something else,” Joe stammered, pitifully.  “Are they all—­are they all—­all right at —­at Judge Pike’s?”

“Quite!” Eugene replied, sharply.  “Are you going to get me away from here?  I’m sick, I tell you!”

“This street,” said Joe, and cheerfully led the way.

Five minutes later the two had parted, and Joe leaned against a cheap restaurant sign-board, drearily staring after the lamps of the gypsy night-cab he had found for his step-brother.  Eugene had not offered to share the vehicle with him, had not even replied to his good-night.

And Joe himself had neglected to do something he might well have done:  he had not asked Eugene for news of Ariel Tabor.  It will not justify him entirely to suppose that he assumed that her grandfather and she had left Canaan never to return, and therefore Eugene knew nothing of her; no such explanation serves Joe for his neglect, for the fair truth is that he had not thought of her.  She had been a sort of playmate, before his flight, a friend taken for granted, about whom he had consciously thought little more than he thought about himself—­and easily forgotten.  Not forgotten in the sense that she had passed out of his memory, but forgotten none the less; she had never had a place in his imaginings, and so it befell that when he no longer saw her from day to day, she had gone from his thoughts altogether.