Mostyn reached the city at five o'clock in the morning. The sun was just rising over the chimneys and dun roofs of the buildings. He lived in the house of his widowed sister, Mrs. John Perkins Moore, in a quiet but fashionable street, and thither he went in one of the numbered cabs which, in charge of slouching negro drivers, meet all trains at the big station.

At his sister's house no one was stirring; even the servants were still abed. He was vaguely glad of this, for he was in no mood for conversation of any sort. Having a latchkey to the front door, he admitted himself and went up to his room at the top of the stairs. Should he lie down and try to snatch a little sleep? he reflected, for his journey and mental state had quite deprived him of rest. Throwing off his coat and vest and removing his collar, necktie, and shoes, he sank on his bed and closed his eyes. But to no effect. His brain was throbbing; his every nerve was as taut as the strings of a violin; cold streams of despair coursed through his veins. For the thousandth time he saw before him the revengeful face of a woman—a face now full of fury—a face which he had once thought rarely pretty, rarely coy, gentle, and submissive. What could be done? Oh! what could be done?

He heard the iceman stop at the door, curiously noted his slow, contented tread as he trudged round to the kitchen to leave the block of ice. He saw the first reddish-yellow shafts of sunlight as they shot through the slats of the window-blinds, fell on his bureau, lighting up the silver toilet articles and the leaning gilt frame holding a large photograph of Irene Mitchell. He sat on the edge of the bed, thrust his feet into his slippers, and stared at the picture. Was it possible that he had really thought seriously of marrying her? It seemed like a vague dream, his entire association with her. For months he had been her chief escort; he had called on her at least twice a week. He had made no denial when his and her friends spoke of the alliance as a coming certainty, and yet a simple little mountain girl had come into his life, and all the rest was over. But why think of that when the other thing hung like a sinister pall above him?

There was a step in the corridor close to the door, then a rap.

"Come!" he cried, thinking it was a servant. The door opened partially, and the reddish face of his sister, under a mass of yellowish crinkly hair, peeped in, smiling.

"I heard you on the stairs," she said. "I'm not dressed, and so I'll not kiss you. I've told the cook to get your breakfast at once, for I know you are hungry."

"Thanks, I am," he answered. "I have been up all night."

She was ten years older than he, short, and firmly built. Her blue, calculating eyes had a sleepy look.

"You must have been up late last night, yourself," he said, nothing more vital occurring to his troubled mind.

"Oh yes, Alan Delbridge gave a big reception and dance in his rooms. Supper was served at the club at one o'clock. Champagne and all the rest. I was the blindest chaperon you ever saw. Good-by—if I don't get down to breakfast it will be because I'm sound asleep. I knew you would cut your outing short."

"You say you did?" he cried, his heart sinking. "What made you think so?"

"The Mitchells are back." She laughed significantly, and was gone.

He had his breakfast alone in the pretty dining-room below, and at once started to town. His first thought was that he would go to the bank, but he decided otherwise. He shrank from the formality of greeting the employees in his present frame of mind. No, he would simply see Marie at once and face the inevitable. The earliness of the hour—it was only nine o'clock—would make no difference with her. In fact, by seeking her at once he might prevent her from looking for him. It would be dangerous, he was well aware of that, but the danger would not be any the greater under the roof of her cottage than at the bank, or even in the streets. He decided not to call a cab. The distance was less than a mile, and the walk would perhaps calm him and might furnish some inspiration as to his dealings with her.

Marie Winship lived in a quiet part of the city, near Decatur Street, and after a brisk walk he found himself at her door ringing the bell. He was kept waiting several minutes, and this was awkward, for he was afraid that some one in passing might recognize him and remark upon his presence there so early in the day. However, no one passed, and he was admitted by a yellow-skinned maid.

"Miss Marie just now got up," she said, as she left him to go into the little parlor off the hall.

"Tell her, Mary, that I want to see her, but not to hurry, for I have plenty of time," Mostyn said, "I have just got back."

"Yes, sir; I heard her say she was 'spectin' you to-day."

He had an impulse to make inquiries of the girl regarding her mistress's disposition, but a certain evasive, almost satirical expression in her eyes prevented it. He was sure the maid was trying to avoid any sort of conference with him.

He sat down at one of the two windows of the room and looked at the cheap, gaudy furniture—the green-plush-covered chairs of imitation mahogany; the flaming rugs; the little upright piano; the square center-table, on which were scattered a deck of playing-cards; some thin whisky glasses; a brass tray of cigarettes. Four straight-backed chairs at the table told a story, as did the burnt matches and cigar-stubs on the hearth. Marie was not without associates, both male and female.

He heard voices in the rear of the cottage. He recognized Marie's raised angrily. Then it died away, to be succeeded by the low mumbling of the maid's. Suddenly Mostyn noticed a thing which fixed his gaze as perhaps no other inanimate object could have done. Partly hidden beneath the blue satin scarf on the piano was a good-sized revolver. Rising quickly, he took it up and examined it. It was completely loaded.

"She really is desperate!" He suddenly chilled through and through. "She got this for me."

He heard a step in the rear, and, quickly dropping the revolver into his coat pocket, he stood expectantly waiting. She was coming. Her tread alone betrayed excitement. The next instant she stood before him. She was a girl under twenty-two, a pretty brunette, with Italian cast of features, and a pair of bright, dark eyes, now ablaze with fury.

"So you are here at last?" she panted, pushing the door to and leaning against it.

"Yes, Saunders gave me your letter yesterday," he answered.

"I thought it would bring you." Her pretty lips were parted, the lower hung quivering. "If you hadn't come right away you would have regretted it to the last day of your life—huh! and that might not have been very far off, either."

"I did not like the—the tone of your letter, Marie." He was trying to be firm. "You see, you—"

"Didn't like it? Pooh!" she broke in. "Do you think I care a snap what you like or don't like? You've got to settle with me, and quick, too, for something you did—"

"I did?" he gasped, in slow surprise. "Why, what have I—"

"I'll tell you what you did," the woman blazed out, standing so close to him now that he felt her fierce breath on his face. "Shortly before you left you were taken sick at the bank, or fainted, or something like it, and didn't even tell me about it. I read it in the paper. I was beneath your high-and-mighty notice—dirt under your feet. But the next day you went driving with Irene Mitchell. You passed within ten feet of me at the crossing of Whitehall Street and Marietta. You saw me as plainly as you see me now, and yet you turned your head away. You thought"—here an actual oath escaped the girl's lips—"you were afraid of what that stuck-up fool of a woman would think. She knows about us—she's heard; she recognized me. I saw it in her eyes. She deliberately sneered at me, and you—you contemptible puppy!—you didn't even raise your hat to me after all your sickening, gushing protestations. I want to tell you right now, Dick Mostyn, that you can't walk over me. I'm ready for you, and I'm tired of this whole business."

He was wisely silent. She was pale and quivering all over. He wondered how he could ever have thought her attractive or pretty. Her face was as repulsive as death could have made it. Aimlessly she picked up a cigarette only to crush it in her fingers as she went on.

"Answer me, Dick Mostyn, why did you treat me that way?"

"My fainting at the bank was nothing," he faltered. "I didn't think it was of enough importance to mention, and as for my not speaking to you on the street, you know that you and I have positively agreed that our relations were to be unknown. People have talked about us so much, anyway, that I did not want to make it worse than it already is. Besides—now, you must be reasonable. The last time I paid you a thousand dollars in a lump you agreed that you would not bother me any more. You were to do as you wished, and I was free to do the same, and yet, already—"

"Bother you! bother you! Is that the way to talk to me? Am I the scum of creation all at once? Didn't you make me what I am? Haven't you sworn that you care more for me than any one else? I was pretty, according to you. I was lovely. I was bright—brighter and better-read than any of your dirty, stuck-up set. You said you'd rather be with me than with any one else, but since then you've begun to think of marrying that creature for her money. Oh, I know that's it—you couldn't love a cold, haughty stick like she is. You are not made that way, but you do love money; you want what she's got, and if you are let alone you will marry her."

"I have no such idea, Marie," he said, falteringly.

"You are a liar, a deliberate, sneaking liar. Money is your god, and always will be."

He made no further denial. They faced each other in perturbed silence for a moment. Presently, to his relief, he saw her face softening, and he took advantage of it. "Marie," he said, "you are not treating me right. My conscience is clear in regard to you. I made you no promises. I paid your expenses, and you were satisfied. You are the one who has broken faith. Above all it was understood between us that I was not to be bound to you in any way. I have been indulging you, and you are growing more and more exacting. You are not fair—not fair. You went openly to my place of business. You made threatening remarks about me to my partner. You are trying to ruin me."

"Ruin you?" she smiled. "There are things worse than ruin. If I could have gotten your address I'd have followed you and shot you like a dog!"

"I am not surprised," he said, calmly. "By accident I found the thing you intended to do it with."

Her startled eyes crawled from his face to the piano. She strode to it, threw back the scarf, and stood facing him.

"You have it?" she said.

He touched his bulging pocket. "Yes, I may use it on myself," he retorted, grimly. "You say you've had enough; well, so have I. I have sown my wild oats, Marie, but they have grown to a jungle around me. During my vacation I made up my mind to turn over a new leaf, but I suppose I have gone too far for that sort of thing. I couldn't marry you—"

"You'd rather die than do it, hadn't you?" The woman's voice broke. "Well, I can't blame you. I really can't." Her breast rose and shook. "The devil is in me, Dick. It has been in me ever since—ever since—but it won't do any good to talk about that. I am down and out."

"What do you mean?" He sank into one of the chairs heavily, his despondent stare fixed on her softened face. "You may as well tell me. I am ready for anything now."

"Oh, it is a family matter." She evaded his eyes. "There is no use going over it, but it has thoroughly undone me."

"Tell me about it," he urged. "Why not?"

Eyes downcast, she hesitated a moment. Then: "You've heard me speak of my brother Hal, who is in business in Texas. You know he and I are the only ones of my family left. He is still a boy to me, and I have always loved him. He is in trouble. He has been speculating and taking money that did not belong to him. Through him his house has lost ten thousand dollars. I've had six appealing letters from his wife—she is desperate."

"Oh, I see," Mostyn said. "That is bad. Is—is he in prison?"

"No—not yet." Marie choked up. "The firm has an idea that his friends may help him restore the money, and they won't prosecute if he can make the loss good. He has been hoping to get help out there among his wife's people, but has failed. The time is nearly up—only two days left, and I—My God, do you think I can live after that boy is put in jail? It has made a fiend of me, for if I hadn't taken up with you I would have gone to Texas with him and it might not have happened. There is a streak of bad blood in our family. My father was none too good. He was like you, able to dodge the law, that's all. But poor Hal didn't cover his tracks."

"Stop, Marie!" Mostyn demanded, in rising anger. "What do you mean by mentioning me in that sort of connection?"

"Humph! What do I mean? Well, I mean that men say—oh, I've heard them talk! I don't have to tell you who said it, but I have heard them say if you hadn't broken old Mr. Henderson all to pieces several years ago you'd never have been where you are to-day."

"You don't understand that, Marie," Mostyn answered, impatiently. "Henderson took it to court, and the decision was—"

"Oh, I know!" She tossed her head. "Your lawyers pulled you through for a rake-off, and the Henderson girls went to work. They live in a shabby little four-room house not far from here. I often see them at the wash-tub in the back yard. The old man hates you like a snake, and so do the girls. I can't blame them. When you get down in the very dregs through dealing with a person you learn how to hate. The thing stays in the mind night and day till it festers like a boil and you want to even up some way."

"Marie, listen to me," Mostyn began, desperately deliberate. "Why can't we come to an agreement? You want to help your brother out of his trouble, I am sure. Now, that is a big amount of money, as you know, and even a banker can't always get up ready funds in such quantities as that, but suppose I give it to you?"

"You—you give it to me?" she stammered, incredulously, her lips falling apart, her white teeth showing. "Why, you said, not a month ago, that you were too hard pushed for money even to—"

"This is different," he broke in. "Through your conduct you are actually driving me to the wall and I am desperate. I am ready to make this proposition to you. I will get up that money. I'll send you a draft for it to-day provided—provided, Marie, that you solemnly agree not to disturb me at all in the future."

"Do you really mean it?" She leaned forward, eagerly. "Because—because if you don't you ought not to mention it. I'd cut off my hands and feet to save that dear boy."

"I mean it," he answered, firmly. "But this time you must keep your promise, and, no matter what I do in the future, you must not molest me."

"I am willing, Dick. I agree. I love you—I really do, but from now on you may go your way and I'll go mine. I swear it. May I—may I telegraph Hal that—"

"Yes, telegraph him that the money is on the way to him," Mostyn said.

Marie sank into a chair opposite him and rested her tousled head on her crossed arms. A trembling sob escaped her, and she looked up. He saw tears filling her eyes. "After all, I may not be so very, very bad," she said, "for this will be a merciful act, and it comes through my knowing you."

"But it must be the end, Marie," he urged, firmly. "It is costing me more than you can know, but I must positively be free."

"I know it," she answered. "I will let you alone, Dick. You may marry—you may do as you like from now on."

"Then it is positively settled," he said, a new light flaring in his eyes. "For good and all, we understand each other."

"Yes, for good and all," she repeated, her glance on the floor.

A moment later he was in the street. The sun had never shown more brightly, the sky had never seemed so fathomless and blue. He inhaled a deep breath. He felt as if he were swimming through the air.

"Free, free!" he chuckled, "free at last!"

Reaching the bank, he was about to enter when he met, coming out, a dark, straight-haired, beardless young man who promptly grasped his hand. It was Alan Delbridge.

"Hello!" Delbridge said, with a laugh. "Glad to see you back. You look better. The wild woods have put new life in you. I knew you'd come as soon as the Mitchells got home."

"It wasn't that," Mostyn said, lamely.

"Oh, of course not," Delbridge laughed. "You were not at all curious to learn the particulars of the old chap's big deal—oh no, you are not that sort! A hundred or two thousand to the credit of a fellow's fiancee doesn't amount to anything with a plunger like you."

Mostyn laid a hesitating hand on the shoulder of the other.

"Say, Delbridge," he faltered, "this sort of thing has gone far enough. I am not engaged to the young lady in question, and—"

"Oh, come off!" Delbridge's laugh was even more persistent. "Tell that to some one else. You see, I know. The old man confides in me—not in just so many words, you know, but he lets me understand. He says you and he are going to put some whopping big deals through, presumably after you take up your quarters under his vine and fig tree."

Mostyn started to protest further, but with another laugh the financier was off.

"Ten thousand dollars!" he thought, as he moved on. "He speaks of my business head; what would he think of the investment I have just made? He would call me a weakling. That is what I am. I have always been one. The woman doesn't live who could worry him for a minute. But it is ended now. I have had my lesson, and I sha'n't forget it."

At his desk in his closed office a few minutes later he took a blank check, and, dipping his pen, he carefully filled it in. Mechanically he waved it back and forth in the warm air. Suddenly he started; a sort of shock went through him. How odd that he had not once, in all his excitement, thought of Dolly Drake! Was it possible that his imagination had tricked him into believing that he loved the girl and could make actual sacrifices for her? Why, already she was like a figment in some evanescent dream. What had wrought the change? Was it the sight of Delbridge and his mention of Mostyn's financial prowess? Was it the fellow's confident allusion to Mitchell and his daughter? Had the buzz and hum of business, the fever of conquest, already captured and killed the impulses which in the mountains had seemed so real, so permanent, so redemptive?

"Dolly, dear, beautiful Dolly!" he said, but the whispered words dropped lifeless from his lips. "I have broken promises, but I shall keep those made to you. You are my turning-point. You are to be my wife. I have fancied myself in love often before and been mistaken, but the man does not live who could be untrue to a girl like you. You have made a man of me. I will be true—I will be honest with you. I swear it! I swear it!"