and shoulders shrugged in a manner that was all too significant.
The next day I investigated Hemenway. I found that he was the scion of a prominent New York family, and in Fairdale presumably for his health. But information sent me by a colleague in the metropolis was to the effect that he was virtually in exile—that he had been ordered to the country by an irate father, following a scandal that had been the sensation of New York society.
That the young man had no intention, however, of leading the quiet and simple life was evident from the fact that he had brought with him two automobiles and a man-servant, and had leased for a term of months one of the most pretentious houses in town. There were rumors, already, of parties at his place, attended by young men and women who arrived in motors from other cities, which seldom broke up until the gray hours of dawn.
That Aileen Mallory had not yet attended any of these orgies, I felt reasonably certain. She thought too much of her position as the leading debutante of Fairdale to jeopardize it in such a manner. But she was a weakling, and, in consequence, I felt worried for her—and for Peter.
The problem was a perplexing one. If I could but talk it over with Peter, face to face, possibly I could make him understand. As it was, I had nothing definite to tell him; and an ill-advised word or two, expressed in cold writing, might cause him to leap to a wrong conclusion.
It was a day or two later that Hemenway came to my office, seeking advice. "My nerves, Doctor Emerson," he explained. "All shot to pieces. Maybe a prescription, or something. . ."
"There is only one thing that will help your nerves, young man," I informed him, "and that is to discontinue your present mode of living. Late hours, liquor—no man can keep it up and not break down under the strain."
I studied him closely, while speaking. There were lines in his face that ought not to have appeared in the countenance of a man twice his age.
"You're like all the rest," he laughed, sulkily. "Always croaking. Wine, women and song—cut them out, and what's there to live for?"
"You'll begin to realize, some day, when it is too late," I added. "And while we're on the subject, may I offer another bit of advice?"
"Go ahead, I'm paying for it," he chuckled, harshly.
"This girl, Aileen Mallory—she's not one of your blase, city types. She's still a good girl, and, furthermore, she is engaged to marry the best friend I have in the world. I ask you, as a gentleman, to leave her alone."
For a moment, I thought he was going to strike me. Instead, he turned on his heel and started to leave the office. He stopped an instant, however, on the threshold; turned and spoke.
"And I ask you," he stated, angrily, "to mind your own business." The next moment he slammed the door, and was gone.
A little later, glancing from my window, I saw his roadster shoot down the street. Beside him sat Aileen Mallory.
THERE was a dance at the Country Club that night. With a troubled heart, I slipped into evening dress, and drove out in my old runabout.
When I arrived, the orchestra was playing some music—a weird, Oriental strain, with a seductive rhythm that wove a strange spell about the senses. There were but a few couples on the floor, and among them—Hemenway and Aileen.
I saw at a glance that the girl had been drinking. Her eyes were partly closed, and she was drifting through the intricate steps dreamily, sensuously, as though oblivious to everything about her. The Country Club had always been "dry"—even in the days before intoxicants were declared illegal. It was not difficult to guess who had given her the wine; for, when they came close, I noticed also that Hemenway's face was flushed, and that he was breathing heavily.
He gripped the girl tightly, his ungloved hand upon the soft flesh of her shoulder, and his eyes taking in hungrily the outlines of her attractively immature figure, barely concealed by the filmy and daring gown she wore.
The music ceased, and, as Hemenway caught sight of me, he led the girl off the floor, out onto the veranda. Enraged, but endeavoring to appear calm, I followed them. I found them seated in a rustic settee, in a far corner.
"Mr. Hemenway," I said, "I wish to speak to you. I am certain that Miss Mallory will excuse you for a moment."
He looked at her quickly, as if about to protest; but she acquiesced with a half-maudlin nod of her pretty head, and he arose and went with me down the steps onto the graveled driveway.
"Well?" he asked, with an air of bravado, when we were out of earshot.
"Good God, Hemenway," I uttered tersely, "have you lost your senses? If you have no respect for yourself, at least show some toward that girl. Leave her alone! Stay away from her! If you don't—"
"If I don't, what—?" he asked, his lip curling.
"I shall deem it necessary—"
He laughed.
"My dear doctor," he replied, in a tone that conveyed the mockery of an imp of hell, "my dear doctor, you forget yourself! Allow me to bid you a pleasant good evening, and return to the fair one who is waiting for me. Au revoir!"
He left me standing there on the driveway, staring impotently at his back as he strode up the steps. I could have killed him cheerfully, at the moment; and now, as I look backward, I think that perhaps it would have been better if I had.
I DID not sleep that night. Far into the morning I lay upon my bed, tossing restlessly, and struggling to find a solution to the problem. There were moments when I decided to go to the girl and warn her; but upon calmer reflection I realized that it would be useless. She would laugh at my warning; would tell me, probably, that I was a meddlesome busybody, over-zealous in my efforts to protect the interests of the absent Peter.
But I could tell Peter, I decided. He had a right to know. He must be brought back immediately, before it was too late. Perhaps he could drag the girl away from the edge of the abyss on which she was flirting.
The decision to write to Peter brought order to my chaotic thoughts. I dispatched a letter to him the following day. I did not attempt to make explanation; I merely informed him that he was needed in Fairdale, and advised him to cut short his wanderings and return at once. Peter would understand. I had no fear that he would miss the significance of the message.
I calculated that it would take thirty days, at least, for my letter to reach Peter, and still another thirty for him to make the trip back.
After posting the missive, I felt better in the consciousness of a duty performed. I tried to shake the whole unpleasant affair from my mind until his return, and devoted myself assiduously to my practice.
It was on a balmy Spring morning, three weeks after the letter had started on its way, that Aileen Mallory visited my office. I saw at a glance that she had aged years since the night I had seen her at the Country Club. There were dark circles beneath her eyes; and the eyes themselves were the eyes of one who is looking into the depths of hell. Her
