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FLAMING

YOUTH

“Yes. Dee’s ill. You must come at once.” He caught up his hat and gloves; his overcoat he had not taken off. “What is it?” “Bobs, it’s—it’s that.”

“That? What? Can’t you speak out?” Out in the air she took a deep breath. “It wasn’t me at all that was in trouble,” she announced desperately. “Not you?” Stupefaction was in his voice. Gathering wrath superseded it as he demanded, “Is this some kind

of an infernal joke?” “No. It was Dee all the time. As I told you at first.” “Then why in the name——” “You wouldn’t help her because she’s married. So 1 thought you might help me, if you thought it was me, because I wasn’t.” “An admirable little game. But I’m still not sure that I quite get the point of it.” His voice was so ugly that Pat’s shook as she said: “The point was to get you to tell me, if you wouldn’t help me

yourself, about

one of those men

in the news-

paper 4 “Dee went to one of them?” he broke in. She looked up at him piteously, pleadingly. “Bobs, it was terrible. He was so—so ghastly business-like.” “What did you expect?” he returned grimly. “And now she’s ill?” “Ves.”

“Fever f”?

“{—I think so.” With a barked-out oath he increased his pace. Pat, striding fast to keep up said: “Bobs, dear; Dee doesn’t know about it.” “About what?”