feel cocky.  They think they’re strong enough to take a hand and try to force recognition on us. ...  He won’t have it.”  Mershon shrugged his shoulders.  “I’ve got to the end of my rope.  Yesterday I told him the responsibility was one I didn’t hanker for, and put it up to him.  He’s going to meet with the labor fellows to-day. ...  And we can look for fireworks.”

“If I were labor,” said the professor, “I think I should leave that young man alone—­until I saw where he headed.  They’re going to get more out of him than organization could compel or even hope for.  If they prod him too hard they may upset things.  He’s fine capacity for stubbornness.”

The labor representatives were on their way to the office.  When they arrived they asked first for Mershon, who received them and notified Bonbright.

“Show them in,” he said.  “We may as well have it over.”  There were four of the men whom Mershon led through the door into Bonbright’s office, but Bonbright saw but one of them-Dulac!

The young man half rose from his chair, then sat down with his eyes fixed upon the man into whose hands, he believed, his wife had given herself.  It was curious that he felt little resentment toward Dulac, and none of that murderous rage which some men might have felt. ...

“Mr. Dulac,” he said, “I want to—­talk with you.  Will you ask these—­ other gentlemen if they will step outside for—­a few moments. ...  I have a-personal matter to discuss with—­Mr. Dulac.”

Dulac was not at his ease.  He had come in something like a spirit of bravado to face Bonbright, and this turn to the event nonplused him.  However, if he would save his face he must rise to the situation.

“Just a minute, boys,” he said to his companions, and with Mershon they filed into the next room.

“Dulac,” said Bonbright, in a voice that was low but steady, “is she well and—­happy?”

“Eh?...”  Dulac was startled indeed.

“I haven’t kept you to—­quarrel,” said Bonbright.  “I hoped she would--wait the year before she went—­to you, but it was hers to choose. ...  Now that she has chosen—­I want to know if it has—­made her happy.  I want her to be happy, Dulac.”

Dulac came a step nearer the desk.  Something in Bonbright’s voice and manner compelled, if not his sympathy, at least something which resembled respect.

“Do you mean you don’t know where Ruth is?” he asked.

“No.”

“You thought she was with me?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Foote, she isn’t with me. ...  I wish to God she was.  I’ve seen her only once since—­that evening.  It was by accident, on the street. ...  I tried to see her.  I found the place empty, and nobody knew where she’d gone.  Even her mother didn’t know.  I thought you had sent her away.”

“Dulac,” said Bonbright, leaning forward as though drawn by spasmodic contraction of tense muscles, “is this true?”