"
Duncombe crossed the room and laid his hand upon the other's shoulder.
"Andrew, old fellow," he said, "I can't have it. I can't allow even my
best friend to spy upon Miss Fielding. You see--I've come a bit of a
cropper. Quick work, I suppose, you'd say. But I'm there all the same."
"Who wants to spy upon Miss Fielding?" Andrew exclaimed hoarsely. "She
can be the daughter of a multi-millionaire or a penniless adventurer for
all I care. All I want is to be sure that she isn't Phyllis Poynton."
"You are not yet convinced?"
"No."
There was a moment's silence. Duncombe walked to the window and
returned.
"Andrew," he said, "doesn't what I told you just now make a
difference?"
Andrew groaned.
"Of course it would," he answered, "but--I'm fool enough to feel the
same about Phyllis Poynton."
Duncombe, in the full glow of sensations which seemed to him to give a
larger and more wonderful outlook on life, felt his sympathies suddenly
awakened. Andrew Pelham, his old chum, sitting there with his huge,
disfiguring glasses and bowed head, was surely the type of all that was
pathetic. He forgot all his small irritation at the other's obstinacy.
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