"And Michael, I suppose, is big and strong and bronzed, like a Greek god?"
"Yes, like a Greek god!" the appreciative-eyed young emotionalist before me promptly agreed. And I began to see how impossible it was going to be to throw the cold white light of truth across that well-swept altar-stone of adoration.
"And I suppose in his off-season he does something? When the weather is colder and he's not saving lives, I mean?"
Our eyes met. But her face remained quite serious.
"He is a pattern-maker, I believe," she had the courage to acknowledge.
I thought this over.
"Then you haven't seen much of him?" I ventured.
"They haven't let me. They've even kept me a prisoner against my will."
"That's the way most prisoners are kept, I imagine. But who do 'they' happen to be?"
"Wendy Washburn," was the girl's answer.
"But what gave him the right to go to extremes like that?" I patiently inquired.
"He took advantage of the fact that he happened to be my guardian. He claimed the law gave him
