be followed outside the court by the old prejudice, the old look askance
at the man called Beauty Steele.

To him it had made no difference at any time. He cared for neither
praise nor blame. In his actions a materialist, in his mind he was a
watcher of life, a baffled inquirer whose refuge was irony, and whose
singular habits had in five years become a personal insult to the
standards polite society and Puritan morality had set up. Perhaps the
insult had been intended, for irregularities were committed with an
insolent disdain for appearances. He did nothing secretly; his page of
life was for him who cared to read. He played cards, he talked
agnosticism, he went on shooting expeditions which became orgies, he
drank openly in saloons, he whose forefathers had been gentlemen of King
George, and who sacrificed all in the great American revolution for
honour and loyalty--statesmen, writers, politicians, from whom he had
direct inheritance, through stirring, strengthening forces, in the
building up of laws and civilisation in a new land. Why he chose to be
what he was--if he did choose--he alone could answer. His personality
had impressed itself upon his world, first by its idiosyncrasies and
afterwards by its enigmatical excesses.

What was he thinking of as he laid the papers away in the tin box in a
drawer, locked it, and put the key in his pocket? He had found to the
smallest detail Billy's iniquity, and he was now ready to shoulder the
responsibility, to save the man, who, he knew, was scarce worth the
saving. But Kathleen--there was what gave him pause. As he turned to
the window and looked out over the square he shuddered. He thought of
the exchange of documents he had made with her that day, and he had a
sense of satisfaction. This defalcation of Billy's would cripple him,
for money had flown these last few years. He had had heavy losses, and