Rand was willing to believe that many of the shafts were chance-sent.

The reflection hardly lessened his anger, but it enabled him to thrust the matter behind him to the limbo of old scores.
He was crossing Broad Street when the door of a house before him opened, and a young man, with a gay word of farewell to some one in the doorway, ran down the steps and into the snowy street.

It was Fairfax Cary.

Rand and he, passing, lifted their hats, but they did not speak.

Had it been the elder Cary, there would have been a moment's tarrying, an exchange of courteous speech.