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 doin' a piece of weepin' also, as I seen when she raised her veil and stepped kind of hesitatin'ly inside. Kid Roberts pulls over a chair for her with a stiff bow—mad or otherwise, the boy was always a gent.

"Well," I smeers, standin' beside her chair, "what are you figurin' on puttin' over now, hey?"

With that she buries her billion-dollar face in her hands and busts right out cryin'!

This was all different, and me and the Kid looks at each other in the greatest of surprise. The first thing I know I am pattin' a silk-clad shoulder and whisperin' sweet nothin's at where I guessed her ear was, and on the other side Kid Roberts is doin' ditto. A couple of fine, strong men, hey?

"I suppose you—you loathe me!" says Joan to me with quiverin' lips.

"Do I look it?" I says kind of sadly. The Kid smiles sarcastically, and this seems to get her goat.

"Won't both of you at least listen to an explanation?" she asks. "You don't have to believe it, you know."

"No," says the Kid, still smilin' politely but coldly, "we don't have to believe it. Eh—proceed, Miss Stillwell; I'm sure you will be interesting."

Her face floods with red at that, but she was game! Me—I'm completely gone again! I even managed to slip her a encouragin' look, and got a glance in exchange for it—that repaid me with usurious interest.

"I want you to know that I was innocent of any malicious intent when I got that interview from you," she says, the words just tumblin' out. "I was not trying to be cunning or clever or—or—anything! I wrote that interview as a straight sporting story, putting