One morning a few days later Mostyn entered the bank and went directly to his office. He had been seated at his desk only a moment when Wright, the cashier, came in smiling suavely. There was a conscious flush on his face which extended into his bald pate, and his eyes were gleaming.

"I want to congratulate you," he said. "We've all been reading the account in the paper this morning. Of course, we've suspected it for some time, but didn't want to talk about it till it was announced."

"I haven't seen the article," Mostyn answered, in a tone of curbed irritation. "It was written by some woman society reporter. Miss Langley told me to look out for it. I think she furnished the information."

"Very likely," Wright answered. "Women like nothing better than a wedding in high life."

"Has Saunders come down yet?" the banker inquired.

"Yes, he is at his desk. He just got back from his farm this morning."

"Please tell him"—Mostyn deliberated—"tell him when he is fully at liberty that I'd like to see him."

A moment later Saunders opened the door and came in. A grave look was on his face, and he failed to respond to Mostyn's "Good morning." He paused, and stood leaning on the top of the desk, his glance averted.

"Wright says you wish to see me," he began.

"Yes, sit down; pull that chair up."

Saunders complied, his eyes on the floor.

"I suppose you've seen the morning paper?" Mostyn asked.

"You mean the—announcement of your—"

"Yes, of course."

"I saw the head-lines. I didn't read it through."

Silence crept between the two men. Mostyn touched a paper-weight with his slender, bloodless fingers, drew it toward him aimlessly, and then pushed it back.

"There is a matter," he began, awkwardly, "which I want to speak to you about. It is due you to know why I drew out that ten thousand dollars. It went to Marie Winship. If you are not satisfied with the collateral I can put up something else."

"It is all right." Saunders dropped the words frigidly. "I knew it was for her. The truth is, I supposed that little less would quiet her." "You, no doubt, consider me the champion idiot of the world." Mostyn essayed a smile, but it was a lifeless thing at best, and left his face more grimly masked than before. "However, it is all over now. She is satisfied, and agrees to quit hounding me from now on."

Saunders snapped his fingers impulsively, tossed his head, started to speak, but remained silent.

"Why did you—do that?" Mostyn demanded, yielding to irritation against his will.

"Oh, there is no use going into it," Saunders said, sharply, "but if you think ten thousand dollars will stop a creature of that stamp, your long experience with such women has not taught you much. She will dog you to the end of her days."

"I don't think so, Jarvis." Mostyn seldom used Saunders's Christian name, and it came out now in a tone of all but insistent conciliation. "By giving her the money just now I rendered her a peculiar service. She wanted it to save her brother from arrest and disgrace."

"And you think that will silence her permanently? Well, it won't. You will hear from her again, if I am any sort of judge."

"You take a gloomy view of it," Mostyn protested. "In fact, I don't exactly know how to make you out to-day. You seem different. Surely you don't oppose my—my marriage?"

"Not in the slightest. I have scarcely thought of it."

"Well, then, what is the matter?"

The sudden set silence after such a demand showed plainly that the question was well-timed. Mostyn repeated it less urgently, but he repeated it.

"I have just got back from my plantation"—Saunders glanced at the closed door furtively—"and while I was there I heard some slight gossip about your attentions to my little friend Dolly Drake. You know mountain people, Mostyn, usually make as much as possible of such things. The truth is, some have gone so far as to say that you and she were likely to marry."

Mostyn's tanned skin faintly glowed. "They have no—no right to go so far as that," he stammered. "I was with her a good deal, for, as you know, she is very entertaining."

"No one knows it better," Saunders said, firmly. "She is the most courageous, beautiful, and brilliant creature I have ever met. More than that, she has long been the most wronged. She has her whole family, including her moonshining father, on her frail shoulders. It is because of these things that I am tempted to speak plainly about a certain—"

"Go on." Mostyn swallowed anxiously, for his partner had paused.

"I have no personal right to inquire into your conduct," Saunders continued, "but a certain thing has filled me with fear—fear for that poor child's happiness. I met her yesterday near her school, and the awful look in her face haunted me through the night. She had nothing to say, no questions to ask, but the dumb look of despair in her eyes could not be misread. I have known you a long time, Mostyn, and I can't remember your failing to make love to every pretty woman you have been thrown with. I hope I am mistaken this time—with all my soul, I do."

Mostyn turned in his revolving chair. He tried to meet the cold stare of his partner steadily. "Jarvis, I am in the deepest trouble that I ever faced."

"So it is true!" burst from Saunders's lips. "My God, it is true!"

"But don't misunderstand me." Mostyn laid an eager hand on the knee close to his own. "My reputation is so bad in your eyes that I must assure you that—that she is as pure as—"

"Stop!" Saunders shook the hand from his knee as if it were a coiled reptile. "You insult her even by mentioning such a thing. The man does not live who could tarnish her name. I have watched her since she was a little child. I know her as well as if she were my sister, and I respect her as much."

Mostyn was fiery red. "I will justify myself as far as possible," he blurted out, desperately. "You may not believe it, but as God is my Judge, I intended, when I left her, to rid myself of Marie Winship and go back and ask her to be my wife."

"I can well believe it, even of you"—Saunders breathed hard—"and I know what happened. You were not proof against other influences."

"That is it," Mostyn fairly groaned. "I am as weak as water. I have wronged that noble girl, but it really was not intentional. Knowing her has been the one solely uplifting influence of my life. While I was there I was sure I could be—be worthy of her, but now I know that I am not."

"No, you are not!" Saunders cried. "You are not. The man does not live who is worthy of her. And you—you, with your past and that foul stench upon you, actually thought of mating with the purest—ugh! My God!"

Mostyn blinked; there was no trace of resentment in his manner, only cringing humiliation.

"What am I to do?" he faltered, helplessly.

"Do? Nothing! There is nothing you can do now. She will read the papers and know what to expect. It was not you she was in love with, anyway, Mostyn, but an ideal of her own in regard to you. I don't know her well enough to know how she will take it. She has had troubles all her life; this may crown them all; it may drag her down—break her fine spirit—kill her. Who knows? You've made a great many successful deals, Mostyn, but this one recently closed for money, as a main consideration, was deliberately advised by the fiends of hell. You have sold your birthright, and if you succeed in your investment it will be because there is no God in the universe. Mark my prediction, the marriage you are making cannot possibly result in happiness—it cannot, because you'll never be able to wipe this other thing from your soul."

Mostyn shrank into his chair. "I wouldn't take this from any one else, Jarvis," he said, almost in a piteous whine. "You have got me down. I'm in no shape for any sort of resentment."

"You got yourself where you are," Saunders ran on, fiercely. "If I am indignant, I can't help it. I would give my right arm to help that poor child, and this powerlessness to act when her suffering is so great drives me to absolute frankness."

"What is the use to talk more of it?" Mostyn said, desperately. "We are getting nowhere."

"There is something else, and I must speak of it," Saunders said, more calmly. "I happen to know the character of Dolly's father perhaps better than you do, and I must tell you, Mostyn, that he is the most dangerous man I ever met. It is my duty to put you on your guard. There is bound to be more or less talk up there, for there are a great many meddlers, and Tom Drake is more than apt to hear of this thing. If he does, Mostyn, an army couldn't stop him. When he is wrought up he is insane. He will come down here and try to kill you. I am going back up there to-day, and if I can possibly prevent trouble I shall do it."

Mostyn had turned deathly pale. "Surely he would not compromise his daughter by such a—a step as that," he stammered.

"Few other men would, but Tom Drake is not like other men. I have seen him fairly froth at the mouth in a fight with three men as big as he was."

Mostyn's lips moved, but no sound issued. Without another word Saunders turned and walked away.

"Great God!" Mostyn whispered in agony, "what am I?"