With these there had come other changes.  The smile which had won many a woman was replaced by a self-conscious smirk; the debonair manner which had charmed all who met him was now a mere bravado.  His dress, too, showed the strain.  While his collar and neckwear were properly looked after, and his face was clean-shaven, other parts of his make-up, especially his shoes and hat, were much the worse for wear.

This, then, was the man who, with thoughts intent on his last and most degrading makeshift, was forging his way up Second Avenue, the mantilla—­the veriest film of old Salamanca lace—­pressed into a small wad and stuffed in his inside pocket.

And now, while we follow him on his way up-town, it may be just as well for us to note that up to this precise moment our devil-may-care, still rather handsome Mr. Dalton, with the drooping eyelids and cold, hard lips, had entirely failed to grasp the idea that, in so far as public and private morals were concerned, he had in the last thirty minutes fallen to the level of a common sneak-thief.

His own reasoning, in disproof of this theory, was entirely characteristic of the man.  While the pawning of one’s things was of course unfortunate and might occasion many misunderstandings and much obloquy, such an act was not necessarily dishonest, because many gentlemen, some of high social position, had been compelled to do the same thing.  He himself, yielding to force of circumstances, had already pawned a good many things—­his wife’s first, and then his own—­and would do it again under similar conditions.  That the article carefully hidden in his pocket belonged to neither one of them, did not strike him as altering the situation in the slightest.  The mantilla was of no value to him, nor, for that matter, to Lady Barbara.  He would pawn it not alone for the sake of the money it would bring him, to tide him over his troubles until he could recover his losses—­only a question of days, perhaps hours—­but because, by means of the transaction, he would be enabled to restore harmony to a home which, through the obstinacy of a woman on whom he had squandered every penny he possessed in the world, had been temporarily broken up.

Should she rebel and refuse to join him—­and she unquestionably had that right—­he would carry out a plan which had come to him in a flash when he first picked it up.  He would pawn it for what it would bring and, watching his chance some day when Lady Barbara was out at work, force his way into the apartment, slip the pawn-ticket where it could easily be found—­behind the china or in among her sewing materials—­and with that as proof, charge her with having stolen the lace, threatening her with exposure unless she yielded.  If she relented, he would destroy the ticket and let the matter drop; if she continued obstinate, he would charge her companion with being an accessory.  The woman was evidently befriending Lady Barbara for what she could get out of her.  Neither of them was seeking trouble.  Between the two he could accomplish his purpose.