"Blair, I'm never in a hurry if you want me. But the fact is I've got rather urgent business. How about to-morrow?"
"Sure. Meet you here. I just wanted to unload on you, Dare. Looks as if my mother has hatched it up between Margie and our esteemed countryman, Richard Swann."
It was not often that Lane cursed, but he did so now.
"But Blair, didn't you tell your mother what this fellow is?" remonstrated Lane.
"Well, I'll say I did," replied Blair, sardonically. "Cut no ice whatever. She didn't believe. She didn't care for any proofs. All rich young men had their irregularities!... Good God! Doesn't it make you sick?"
"But how about Holt Dalrymple?"
"Holt's turned over a new leaf. He's working hard, and I think he has taken a tumble to himself. Listen to this. He met Margie with Dick Swann out at one of the lake dances—Watkins' Lake. And he cut her dead. I'm sorry for Margie. She sure is rank poison these days.... Well, speak of the devil!"
Holt Dalrymple collided with them at the entrance of the inn. The haggard, sullen, heated look that had characterized him was gone. He was sunburned, and his dark eyes were bright. He greeted his friends warmly. They chatted for a moment. Then Lane grew thoughtful, all the while gazing at Holt.
"What's the idea?" queried that worthy, presently. "Anything wrong with me?"
"Boy, you're just great. Seeing you has done me good.... You ask what's the idea. Holt, would you do me a favor?"