If evil thoughts and evil passions could have a tangible effect upon the physical atmosphere, the air of Marston Loring’s room, an hour later, should have been thick and heavy. He was sitting thrown back in an easy-chair, his evening coat replaced by a smoking jacket, a glass of whisky and seltzer-water close to his hand. There were also cigars on the table, but he was not smoking. He was staring straight before him into vacancy. His face was pale and set with vindictive passion, to the existence of which in his nature the general callousness of his expression gave no clue.

It was many years since Marston Loring had felt as he felt to-night. It was many years since he had been foiled and thwarted—“made a fool of,” as he himself would have said; and all that was blackest and worst in the man was roused by the process. His life, ever since he had realised, at the age of twenty-five, that there were prizes in the world which some men obtained and other men failed to obtain, had been ruled by a series of carefully made and elaborately worked out calculations. Everything he had done, and everything he had not done, had been included in one or other of these calculations; carefully designed to meet certain ends, all of which met and culminated in the one great end of existence as he conceived it—material prosperity and position.

He had been, perhaps, as vicious a youth as could have been found in London, and he had not ceased to be vicious as a man. But he so managed his vices that even the reputation which clung to him had contributed to his success. The question of marriage he had discussed with himself on more than one occasion, always solely from the point of view of expediency. And just about the time when Mrs. Romayne made her appearance in London society he had come to the conclusion that, given the right sort of woman, the step might possibly prove advantageous. He had been considerably struck by Mrs. Romayne from the first; she was the kind of woman he greatly admired, and he was well aware that to be on terms of intimacy with such a social power was an excellent thing for a man in his position; a position which, as he was also well aware, was by no means so secure as most people supposed. It was from this point of view that he had cultivated Julian, and, at first, from this point of view only. The idea of Mrs. Romayne as a possible wife occurred to him later. But when it did occur, it developed into active intention with considerable rapidity.

He had looked at the question from every possible point of view, and decided that nothing could suit him better. He had no taste for young women. He admired Mrs. Romayne as much as it was possible to him to admire any one; she was “the kind of woman he could get on with,” he told himself. She possessed exceptional advantages in the matter of social standing, and she had money. Her eager cultivation of him during the autumn that followed her first season in town convinced him that with a little trouble she could be brought to forget the disadvantage of his comparative poverty; and he would have proposed to her in the ensuing winter had not his voyage to the Cape prevented. He had come back with the prospect of a fortune of his own. But the fact made no difference to his matrimonial plans. Where there is money more money is always to be desired. Mrs. Romayne’s fortune was no longer absolutely necessary to him, but it had not ceased to be desirable, and her other advantages remained intact. She had received him with enthusiasm, she had cultivated him assiduously; she had absolutely led him on, as it seemed to Loring. He, in common with the rest of the world, regarded her relations with her son as the merest pose, and her appeal for his help with Julian had seemed to him simply the most transparent of subterfuges. He had no more doubted that she would accept him than he had doubted his own existence. And now his plans were frustrated, his calculations were falsified, and his very practical and material castles in the air were laid in the dust. He was refused.

He roused himself at last, and the faintest suggestion of a cruel smile curved his thin lips. He lifted the glass by his side, drank off its contents, and then turned out the lamp and went into the inner room.

His face was quite itself the next morning; the scowl and the cruelty had alike disappeared; and it was with an even less cynical smile than usual that he looked up from his morning paper at a few minutes past ten o’clock, as the door opened with a hasty knock, and Julian Romayne appeared.

“Good morning, dear boy!” said Loring pleasantly.

“Morning, old man!” responded Julian.

He was looking rather pale and anxious, and he went on quickly:

“Nothing wrong with ‘Welcomes,’ I hope?”

Loring smiled again.

“Nothing in the world, as far as I know,” he said gaily. “What a nervous fellow you are!”

“What an unreasonable fellow you are!” retorted Julian, the cloud vanishing from his face as if by magic. “What do you mean by dragging a poor wretch down here at this hour in the morning, whether he will or no? What’s up?”

It was some legal business, it appeared; and Loring proceeded to go into it with great circumstance. It sounded very important as he put it, but Julian took his leave, declaring gaily that he “didn’t see where the urgency came in.”

“You’re such an abominably hard-working fellow!” he said lightly.

“Perhaps!” returned Loring. “It’s not such a bad principle, and it’s an excellent character to have, let me tell you. By-the-bye, Julian,” he continued, as the young man turned away with a laugh, and laid his hand on the door, “how would you like to have a few more Welcomes?”

He rose as he spoke, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece with his back to the empty grate, confronting Julian as the young man turned sharply towards him.

“What do you mean?” said Julian. “Are there any in the market?”

“Well, yes,” said Loring quietly. “The fact is, there’s a certain shooting in Scotland which I have coveted for years. It’s for sale now, and on uncommonly reasonable terms. Of course, it’s appalling extravagance on my part, for the shares are going up every day. But I am going to sell a thousand pounds’ worth of Welcomes to-day and buy that moor.”

“It is extravagance!” said Julian, and there was an eager light in his blue eyes.

“Like to have the shares?” said Loring imperturbably.

Julian hesitated.

“I should like them, of course,” he said, rather breathlessly. “So would lots of other fellows. But, you see, my thousands, what there were of them, are all locked up in the Welcome already.”

“You wouldn’t think it worth while to borrow, I suppose?” enquired Loring carelessly.

“There’s a little difficulty known as security.”

“For some fellows, of course,” was the answer. “But not for you. You’ve got money coming to you.”

Julian coloured a dull red, and looked down at the carpet, moving his foot to and fro uneasily.

The idea of raising money on a reversion for such a purpose was for the moment inexpressibly repugnant to him.

“The shares are going up every day,” said Loring; “you ought to make a good thing of it; and you’ll sell at the end of this week, I take it? However, of course, I don’t want to press you. They’ll go off fast enough.”

Julian lifted his head suddenly, and drove his clenched hand deep down into his pocket.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “All right, Loring, I’ll take them.”

“To-day?” said Loring suavely.

“To-day!” returned Julian, almost fiercely.

He turned and left the room abruptly, without another word. And Loring, with the smile of the night before touching his lips once more, took up his paper again. Apparently he had forgotten the letter he had received from South Africa on the previous day, and the news it contained.