When we were alone, Mr. Engelman lit his pipe. He spoke to me once more
with the friendly familiarity of past days--before he met the
too-fascinating widow on the bridge.

"My dear boy, tell me frankly, do you notice any change in Keller?"

"I see a change in both of you," I answered: "you are not such pleasant
companions as you used to be."

Mr. Engelman blew out a mouthful of smoke, and followed it by a heavy
sigh.

"Keller has become so bitter," he said. "His hasty temper I never
complained of, as you know. But in these later days he is hard--hard as
stone. Do you know what he did with dear Madame Fontaine's letter? A
downright insult, David--he sent it back to her!"

"Without explanation or apology?" I asked.

"With a line on the envelope. 'I warned you that I should refuse to read
your letter. You see that I am a man of my word.' What a message to send
to a poor mother, who only asks leave to plead for her child's happiness!
You saw the letter. Enough to melt the heart of any man, as I should have
thought. I spoke to Keller on the subject; I really couldn't help it."

"Wasn't that rather indiscreet, Mr. Engelman?"

"I said nothing that could reasonably offend him. 'Do you know of some
discreditable action on the part of Madame Fontaine, which has not been
found out by anyone else?' I asked. 'I know the character she bears in