she might know the local habitat of Mrs. Alys Brewster-Smith and a certain
Cousin Emelene. His manner was arid.

Miss Sheridan chanced to know that the ladies were sheltered in the
exclusive boarding-house of one Mrs. Gallup, out on Erie Street, and
informed him to this effect in the fewest possible words. Mr. Evans
whistled absently a moment, then formally announced that he should be
absent from the office for perhaps an hour. Hat, gloves and stick in hand,
he was about to nod punctiliously to the back of Miss Sheridan's head when
the door opened to admit none other than our hero, George Remington. George
wore the look of one who is uplifted and who yet has found occasion to be
thoughtful about it. Penfield Evans grasped his hand and shook it warmly.

"Fine, George, old boy--simply corking! Honestly, I didn't believe you had
it in you. You covered the ground and you did it in a big way. It took
nerve, all right! Of course you probably know that every woman in town is
speaking of your young wife as 'poor Genevieve,' but you've had the courage
of your convictions. It's great!"

"Thanks, old man! I've spoken for the right as I saw it, let come what may.
By the way, has Uncle Martin been in this morning, or telephoned, or sent
any word?"

Miss Sheridan coldly signified that none of these things had occurred,
whereupon George sighed in an interesting manner and entered his own room.

Mr. Evans had uttered his congratulations in clear, ringing tones and
Miss Sheridan, even as she wrote, contrived with her trained shoulders to
exhibit to his lingering eye an overwhelming contempt for his opinions and
his double-dealing.