"If I didn't think more of you than of any man on earth I'd be shot
before I'd tell you," protested Perry, and added with a desperate rush
under fire.

"He had too much champagne last night--though, as for that matter, I've
seen him upset by a cocktail--and afterward at billiards he told Skinker
that--that Mrs. Adams--you understand, old chap, it's all his rot--was
going to supper alone with him to-night--in his rooms after the opera.
Of course he was drunk and I wouldn't bet a cent on his word even when
he's sober. He's the kind of fool that tells of his conquests at the
club," he wound up with scathing contempt.

For a moment Adams, looking away from him, stared silently into a shop
window before which he stood--intent apparently upon the varied display
of antique silver. Then he turned squarely to Perry Bridewell and broke
into a short, hard laugh.

"Well, Brady lied," he said. "I promised Mrs. Adams that I would bring
her home from the opera." It was no hesitation in his own voice, but the
joyful relief which shone at him from Perry's face that brought him
suddenly to a stop. "You were a first-rate fellow to come to me," he
went on more quietly. "Of course, you know, our Western conventions are
much more elastic than your New York ones. All the same--"

"I merely wanted to let her know the kind of man he is," explained
Perry. "What do women understand about the men they meet--why, we all
look pretty much alike upon the surface." Then his righteous anger got
the better of his philosophy and he broke out in a heartfelt oath. "Damn
him! I'd like to thrash him clean out of his skin!"