All day long he sat in his office, brooding and nursing his wrath.  He had moods when he wished to drop everything, to shake the dust of the city from his feet, and go back home and recollect what it was to be a gentleman.  And then again he had righting moods, when he wished to devote all his life to punishing the men who had made use of him.  He would get hold of some other policy-holder in the Fidelity, one whom he could trust; he would take the case without pay, and carry it through to the end!  He would force the newspapers to talk about it—­he would force the people to heed what he said!

And then, toward evening, he went homo, bitter and sore.  And there was his brother sitting in his study, waiting for him.

“Hello,” he said, and took off his coat, preparing his mind for one more ignominy—­the telling of his misfortune to Oliver, and listening to his inevitable, “I told you so.”

But Oliver himself had something to communicate something that would not bear keeping.  He broke out at once—­“Tell me, Allan!  What in the world has happened between you and Mrs. Winnie?”

“What do you mean?” asked Montague, sharply.

“Why,” said Oliver, “everybody is talking about some kind of a quarrel.”

“There has been no quarrel,” said Montague.

“Well, what is it, then?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It must be something!” exclaimed Oliver.  “What do all the stories mean?”

“What stories?”

“About you two.  I met Mrs. Vivie Patton just now, and she swore me to secrecy, and told me that Mrs. Winnie had told some one that you had made love to her so outrageously that she had to ask you to leave the house.”

Montague shrunk as from a blow.  “Oh!” he gasped.

“That’s what she said,” said he.

“It’s a lie!” he cried.

“That’s what I told Mrs. Vivie,” said the other; “it doesn’t sound like you—­”

Montague had flushed scarlet.  “I don’t mean that!” he cried.  “I mean that Mrs. Winnie never said any such thing.”

“Oh,” said Oliver, and he shrugged his shoulders.  “Maybe not,” he added.  “But I know she’s furious with you about something—­everybody’s talking about it.  She tells people that she’ll never speak to you again.  And what I want to know is, why is it that you have to do things to make enemies of everybody you know?”

Montague said nothing; he was trembling with anger.

“What in the world did you do to her?” began the other.  “Can’t you trust me—–­”

And suddenly Montague sprang to his feet.  “Oh, Oliver,” he exclaimed, “let me alone!  Go away!”

And he went into the next room and slammed the door, and began pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

It was a lie!  It was a lie!  Mrs. Winnie had never said such a thing!  He would never believe it—­it was a nasty piece of backstairs gossip!