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somehow he had always thought of it as concerning only the young. Apparently he had been wrong. It went on and on. One might have the damnable pain at any age. There was no immunity. Maybe you fought your way out of one torture only to meet up with another later on.
    He felt very low in his mind, and even reflecting on Furness Brooks’s hat no longer comforted him.
    He found Mr. Cox without any trouble. He was a commonplace-looking little man, and the commonplaceness was not decreased by the fact that that night he wore the cap. As the vessel of a romantic and clandestine passion he was disappointing, but there was a sort of belligerent honesty about his face that Warrington approved of.
    “Your name Cox?” he asked.
    Mr. Cox wheeled. “Yes. I guess you’ve got the advantage of me.”
    “You don’t know me. I have a message for you. Let’s get out of this crowd.”
    Outside on the pavement Mr. Cox fell into step beside him. He strode along, stretching himself to keep up with Warrington’s longer strides, for never, under ordinary circumstances, would he allow another man to outstep him. That was written all over him.
    Outside of a jeweller’s window down the street they paused, and Warrington conveyed his message.
    “She’s been sick?” said Mr. Cox anxiously. “Why didn’t she send me word before this?”
    “I rather gathered that it isn’t easy to get word to you.”
    “Easy! I’ll tell the world it isn’t easy. How is she now?”
    “She’s better. She says next week will be all right. Look here, Mr. Cox, why don’t you get her out of there?”
    “Get her out? Don’t you suppose I would if I could? Haven’t I tried for over a year?”
    “Then get her,” said Warrington briefly.
    Mr. Cox peered up at him, anxiety written clearly on his face. “Why do you say that?” he demanded. “Not that it’s any of your damned business, but if you know anything, you’d better tell me.”
    His manner was truculent, his voice raised.
    Warrington told him. He had all the average man’s objection to interfering in the affairs of other people, but the picture of Aunt Margaret on the kitchen floor rose in his mind and cut off all other thoughts. She wasn’t going to try that again, not if he could help it.
    But he had not counted on Mr. Cox. Mr. Cox went berserk; he strode up and down the pavement, angrily talking and finally fairly shouting. Passers-by looked at him wonderingly; some dodged past, and others moved slowly, smiling. He was temporarily quite mad.
    Warrington felt ridiculous—ridiculous and angry. He tried leading Mr. Cox away by the arm, but he would not be led. And finally a policeman wandered up, listened a moment, and then touched Mr. Cox on the arm.
    “Better go around the corner and talk about your troubles,” he said.
    It is doubtful if Mr. Cox even heard what he said. He came to himself, saw the hand on his arm, and stiffened.
    “Take your hand off me,” he yelled.
    The policeman’s smile died. He held on.
    “Then behave yourself,” he said.
    Suddenly Mr. Cox hauled off and hit him, and was promptly placed under arrest!
    At the station house later they only reprimanded him and let him go, a crushed and terribly humiliated little man; but his name was on the blotter, and so was Warrington’s, for that matter. He walked out into the street, no longer attempting to keep pace with the taller man, not even talking.
    He stopped at the corner, however, and made a sort of apology.
    “First time in my life that’s happened to me,” he said. “Sorry I got you into it. I guess I was excited.” He hesitated. “I’ll be thankful if you don’t tell Margaret. She’d feel responsible, seeing that it was—” His voice trailed off. He stood for a second uncertainly. “I’m going to get her out of that hell hole,” he said thickly, and turned abruptly, disappearing down a side street.
    So Warrington was not as surprised as he might have been to come home a few days later and find an