man in the bridge case, it must necessarily have been Barry. And he had come to Mary Bradley, not alone for information with which to confront Westgate, but also to file a vigorous protest with her against her conduct with his inconsequential rival. Barry's denial had taken the ground from under his feet. He could scarcely believe that the man was telling the truth, yet no one had ever known Barry to variate a hair's breadth from the exact truth as he understood it.
"Moreover," added Mary Bradley, "it's past closing time, and I want to start home this minute, and I will thank you gentlemen to permit me to close the office."
Both men rose to their feet, expressed their regret at having delayed her, said good-night to her, and went out together. Side by side they walked up the street, chatting as they went, brother socialists, friendly rivals for the favor of a fascinating woman. Lamar stopped at the Silver Star, but Barry would not go in. He had not yet reached that stage of the common fellowship game, where the drinking saloon has its attractions. Lamar went in alone, sat down at a table in the room to the rear of the bar, and over his glass of whiskey and soda he pondered the thing he had that day heard concerning Mary Bradley. Who was it who had crossed the bridge with her? Or was the story simply a vicious slander made up out of whole cloth? So faint and far away that at first he could barely grasp it, a suspicion arose. It took on form. It was shadowy and tenuous indeed. It faded out only to reappear. And, ever after, it followed him about, a ghost that he could not lay, and dared not challenge.
It was a week after the conference that a letter came
from the bishop of the diocese to the vestry of Christ
Church. In it he deplored the quarrel that had arisen
between certain of the vestrymen and the rector. He
was grieved over the bitterness of spirit that had been
