"I suppose not," Harvey replied. "It's still a little odd to me. I'm
afraid I'd want to break his head."

Jim laughed.

"You'll get over that. I reckon you haven't got anything against his
daughter."

"Perhaps not," said Harvey; "but that's different."

"Oh, is it?"

Harvey sat for a moment without reply, then he tossed his half-smoked
cigar into the ashtray and rose.

"Don't go, West. I shall be up for a long while."

"I'm tired," Harvey replied. "I need sleep. Good night."

Harvey walked home slowly. Once in his room, he did not light up; instead
he drew an easy-chair to the window and stretched out where he could feel
the breeze. It had been a strange evening. He went back over the
conversation in the Bismarck. Katherine had seemed even prettier than
usual; but before every picture of her rose the calm, smiling face of
McNally--McNally with his pudgy hands and his cool blue eyes, his ease and
his well-placed comment. Harvey rested an elbow on the sill and looked out
the window. The crowds were gone now. No sound came save the rustle of the
leaves and the occasional rumble of the elevated trains. The moon was
clouded, but over the trees the stars were out, as clear and soft as on
other evenings that had not seemed so dreary. He turned away and walked