Antrim thought it was—in more senses than one. More than that, it was blankly incredible, or rather it would be apart from Dorothy’s positive assertion. Could he have been so purblind as not to have seen what was going on before his very eyes? Reason said No; but a misconception, once endowed with the breath of life, is sure to find plenty to fatten upon, and the atoms of corroborative evidence began to assemble quickly with Dorothy’s declaration for a nucleus.
This was why Brant had been so sure that he knew Isabel’s preference; and he had been mistaken, after all. This was why he had stopped going to Hollywood, and why he had been so quick to deny even the hint of a love affair with Dorothy. And Isabel: had she not steadfastly refused to say in so many words that she did not love any one else?
Antrim called himself hard names under his breath, and in the first flush of the new misery would have been glad to be able to charge his friend with insincerity. He saw the injustice of that in time to fight it down, and then rancour gave place to honest admiration. How unselfishly Brant had effaced himself, and how quick he had been to succour and to offer comfort and countenance to his rival! That, too, seemed incredible, even to Brant’s best friend; but since incredible things were the order of the day, it was decently in keeping with all the other happenings of a time which was hopelessly out of joint.
So Antrim assured himself, with what resignation he could command; but for all that, this latest buffet of the boxer Misfortune was as a bolt from the blue, and he staggered under it, though not toward the abyss, since he had lately had his lesson and had profited by it.
While he was trying to face the necessity of discussing this newest phase of the many-sided problem with becoming stoicism a car overtook them and privacy was at an end. By the time the car had reached the crossing nearest the mission school he had fought and won his battle—the fiercest, and, as it chanced, the most unnecessary, that had ever been thrust upon him—and was ready with an assurance of good faith which was quite as sincere as it was costly.
“We mustn’t be discouraged, and we must just go on hoping against hope,” he said, when he took Dorothy’s hand at parting. “It is a most intricate tangle, and I can’t begin to unravel it yet; but you may count on one thing: what one man may do to help Brant will be done. You have told me some things that I didn’t know before, but I shall work all the harder for knowing them. And if—if you think it will do any good, you may tell Isabel that.”
After which generous confession of faith he left her and went to his office, being minded to dull the keen edge of the new trouble on the grindstone of hard work. The dulling process was but fairly in train when the door opened to admit Forsyth.
“Do you allow a man to trespass on Sunday?” he asked, feeling for the latch of the gate in the counter-railing.
“Surely, when the man is as good a friend as you are. Come in and sit down.”
“It is about Brant, or I shouldn’t trouble you,” explained the editor, drawing up a chair. “I have been to see him again, and he is more obstinate than ever—if that be possible. He said you were there yesterday, and I came to see if you had been able to do anything with him.”