day in winter. He was the sort of man who surprised you when you saw him with a grown-up daughter and made one wonder how young he was when he married; as a matter of fact, he had been twenty-four then; so he was forty-seven now; but it was stale flattery to him to say that he did not look it. He had possessed the birthright of a sound, well-formed body and the physical advantage of having been brought up in a none-too-indulgent home in a town in northern Illinois; he had always had to work and, while working, had educated himself. Until he had earned it, he never had had more than enough of anything; and now, by habit, he still worked hard and, in all obvious matters, kept himself in restraint. So his brown eyes were clear and there was no dragged skin in the firm, agreeable lines of his capable face; his brown hair was thick and little gray; his body was free of excess weight. Gregg never quite liked his mouth, which had lips too thick; but his mustache improved them and his mouth was pleasant when he smiled. He had even, almost perfect teeth.
Here was a man certain to understand the risks in anything dangerous which he undertook, Gregg thought; he could be counted upon to protect his family and himself. Yet, if he mistook some element, what a calamity for such a man to be commonly disgraced; and—Gregg thought—what an impossible man to approach on a personal affair.
"Well, Gregg Mowbry, I did manage to get you here!"
Gregg spun about; there was Marjorie. "Nobody like you!" he exulted, almost aloud. He forgot her father; forgot that he had been thinking of her in danger and himself protecting her. He felt only the
