"Safe enough, I guess--a little wild, at times, maybe; but he's not such
a fool as to lose what he'd never have a chance of getting again."

"Then," said Gilbert, "it's hardly likely that he's the same friend you
took such a fancy to, at the Hammer-and-Trowel, last spring?"

Alfred Barton started as if he had been shot, and a deep color spread
over his face. His lower jaw slackened and his eyes moved uneasily from
side to side.

"Who--who do you mean?" he stammered.

The more evident his embarrassment became, the more Gilbert was
confirmed in his suspicion that there was some secret understanding
between the two men. The thing seemed incredible, but the same point, he
remembered had occurred to Martha Deane's mind, when she so readily
explained the other circumstances.

"Barton," he said, sternly, "you know very well whom I mean. What became
of your friend Fortune? Didn't you see him at the tavern, last Monday
morning?"

"Y-yes--oh, yes! I know who he is _now_, the damned scoundrel! I'd give
a hundred dollars to see him dance upon nothing!"

He clenched his fists, and uttered a number of other oaths, which need
not be repeated. His rage seemed so real that Gilbert was again
staggered. Looking at the heavy, vulgar face before him,--the small,
restless eyes, the large sensuous mouth, the forehead whose very extent,