his evening clothes, for he'd been at Ina Sparling's wedding, and he hadn't even dropped his hat downstairs.
"How long you been home, Steve?" he asked, coming beside me.
"Since half-past twelve," I said.
"Awake all the time?"
"Yes, Jerry."
"Anybody call for me?"
"No."
"You've not heard the 'phone at all?"
"No. What's the matter, old fellow?"
"Dot!" said Jerry, staring down at me without now seeing me at all.
"Dorothy Crewe?" I asked, in the way I have of asking perfectly obvious questions.
"Yes, Steve."
"Oh; you've quarrelled?" I said, imagining I saw a light. "That's it."
"I'd trade a good many quarrels for what happened—probably, Steve."
"To her?" I said again, stupidly.
He did not exactly nod his head but he inclined it a trifle lower. "The damnedest thing, Steve; the queerest affair!" he said, looking quickly at me again. He brushed my book to the floor and dropped on the foot of the bed and
