STEPHEN came swiftly into the library. The early morning sun streamed in through the long windows which stood open, and by the table in the centre of the room sat Benson reading his morning paper.

“Uncle Jake,” said the young fellow huskily.

The lawyer glanced up from his paper.

“Good-morning, Stephen,” he said pleasantly. His mood had changed somewhat over night, and he had decided not to be too exacting with the boy. But Stephen could not know this. His face was very white and resolute. He had slept but little. The gross injustice of Benson's demand was a conviction that had remained unalterably fixed in his memory. He met Benson's glance waveringly. Something rose in his throat, but by an effort he mastered the emotions he felt might sway him to weakly temporize with a situation which he had told himself over and over could not be longer borne.

“In view of last night's conversation, Uncle Jake, I have decided that the best thing for me to do is to leave your house. I am sorry that this is so. I am here to thank you for the benefits, the numberless kindnesses you have conferred upon me—and to say goodbye.” He took a forward step and extended his hand. The words he had rehearsed many times, but the feeling that flowed with them was real and spontaneous and of the moment itself.

The paper shook in the lawyer's hand, but he did not put it aside, nor rise to his feet. An angry frown gathered between his brows, but this smoothed itself away, and left him cold and unmoved.

“Just as you think best, Stephen,” he said, without show of resentment or regret, and dropped his eyes to the paper again.

There was a painful awkward pause, in which Stephen heard the beating of his own heart. His decision and Benson's acceptance of it had been reached with tragic swiftness; and he recognized that the affairs of life are sometimes affairs of seconds only; that one can shatter ruthlessly as well as rear patiently. He paused irresolutely in the doorway.

“Uncle Jake, won't you speak to me—”

“I have nothing to say, Stephen,” said Benson, without lifting his eyes from his paper.

At this, Stephen turned on his heel and left the room. A moment later, and the house door closed, and save for the servants Benson was alone in his house.

He read on imperturbably until the breakfast bell rang, then he got up slowly, and walked slowly into the dining-room.

On the street Stephen paused and took stock of the situation. He had broken with Benson, and where was he to go? There was only his aunt; he would have to go there. He could ask this of her for the time, until he could do something for himself. He was hurt and embittered. It was a terrible blow to him that Benson's affection had died so quick a death. He wished he might have been allowed to say more, to explain fully why his attitude was as it was, and just how impossible it had become for him to break with either his aunt or the Nortons.

It hurt him, too, though he did not own this even to himself, that after all these years he had made himself of so little consequence to Benson. He would have dismissed an incompetent servant with as little show of feeling.

But Benson was not happy. He dispatched his breakfast in haste and hurried down to the office.

“Gibbs,” said he to the general who was already there. “Stephen has left my house.”

“Left your house, Jake—I don't understand.”

“He has left my house,” repeated Benson sharply.

“Good Heavens, Jake, what's happened?” cried the general in dismay.

“Never mind what's happened, Gibbs. You are not to mention his name again in my hearing; that is all I have to say to you.”

“Oh, see here, Jake,” began Gibbs, but Benson gave him such a look that he dared say no more.

“This is a matter we will not discuss,” said he frigidly. “Now bring in your accounts, and we will see about your collections for the month.”

All that morning poor Gibbs worked as a man in a dream; but at noon Benson went home, and he promptly put on his hat and shuffled out into the street. He was consumed by a burning desire to know why Stephen had left the lawyer's house, for what would Stephen do without Benson, and what would Benson do without Stephen? One had seemed as dependent as the other in this relation of theirs. He wondered what was the nature of Stephen's offence. He felt that he must have exceeded the limits set by Benson in some particular. Probably he had been extravagant, he could think of nothing beyond this; scandal he would have heard. He knew that for some days Benson had seemed worried and anxious, and this explained it. Stephen had been the cause of it, but what was it that Stephen could have done!

These were the points he pondered as he hurried away in the direction of Wade's office. He would see Wade and get word to Stephen. He found Ben alone.

“Have you seen Stephen Landray to-day?” he demanded without ceremony or introduction.

“No—what's wrong, general?” said Wade.

“Matter enough!” said the general moodily, as he sat down weakly in a chair. “But what it is I don't just know. I'd give a good deal to—”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“He's left Jake Benson's, Ben! Jake called me into the office this morning the first thing and told me he'd left—gone for good—and that I was not to mention his name again. Now what do you think of that?”

Wade bounded from his chair and snatched up his hat.

“You don't say! Well, this is news!”

“Ain't it awful!” lamented the general.

“Well, of course that's one way to look at it,” said Wade, grinning.

“Where are you going, Ben?” for he saw that Wade was making preparations to leave.

“Out to Mrs. Landray's; I want to see Stephen, I expect to find him there.”

“Hold on, Ben,” said Gibbs, detaining him with a feeble hand. “Do you know what's wrong? Has Stephen been in any trouble that you know of?”

“Nothing that I know of, general, I give you my word on that.”

“No debts, no escapades that Jake Benson would be likely not to approve of?”

“None so far as I know,” said Wade impatiently.

“Then what's wrong, can you tell me that?” asked Gibbs weakly.

“No, I can't,” said Wade.

“I suppose both of them lost their tempers over some trifle,” speculated the general. “But look here, this ain't no trifle to either of them; the boy's future is at stake; and this is no light matter to Jake either, for all his damn airs! I'll bet they just flared up over nothing at all, and now I want to see 'em flare down and get back to their senses. You're going to see Steve?”

“Yes, that is if he is at his aunt's as I expect he is. I am going there now.”

“Well, you tell him for me, Ben, that I want to see him, to-night at my house, will you do that?”

“Certainly.”

“Tell him it's very particular. I'd go to him myself, but Jake might not like that if he ever found it out; but there is no harm in his coming to me; that's quite another matter.”

“Quite,” agreed Wade.

“I'm going to patch this thing up,” said the old man. “Jake Benson ain't acting right, and he knows it. He's got no business to turn that young fellow out of doors without a day's warning. I'll tell him so, too, if he don't come to his senses damn quick!”

“All right, general—all right. I'll give him your message,” said Wade from the door.

“Thank you, Ben,” and Gibbs shuffled after him, but by the time he had reached the street, Wade had disappeared.

This was news indeed that old Gibbs had brought him, for there could be but one reason why Stephen had left Benson.

“He's objected to Stephen going to his aunt's. Stephen probably told him he was there last night. These people—these people! who are ready to chuck up everything for a fancied point of honour, who are always losing sight of the main thing! How am I ever going to keep them sane and faced about in the right direction!”

He found Stephen at the cottage but reserved and taciturn, and quite evidently none too well pleased with himself, and apparently very resentful of his own prompt appearance, especially when he told him of Gibbs's call and message. But Wade was not sensitive; he carried a stout heart under a thick skin, and much had been accomplished, for Stephen had broken with Benson. This was more than he had hoped for.

Virginia came into the room, and with a muttered excuse to her, Stephen left them. She was not reserved. She thought Benson's conduct had been outrageous.

“But what was the trouble, Mrs. Landray?”

“I don't know, Stephen hasn't said, but he has left Mr. Benson for good;” her eyes flashed with the sense of triumph she was feeling, and which she could not hide from him. She had asked Stephen no question, and he had told her nothing beyond the fact that he and Benson had disagreed and that he could not go back there.

“Well, now we can go ahead, can't we?” said Wade eagerly.

“Yes, I am glad you came, for I want to know what I must do.”

“We'll offer Benson back the five thousand dollars he paid for the land,” said Wade.

“But I have no such sum as that!” said Virginia.

“Oh, that's all right. Mr. Norton will let us have the cash for an hour or so. Of course, Benson won't take it, the tender is the merest formality, and don't really mean anything in itself,” explained Wade.

“Is it necessary?”

“Well, yes, it's a good point. Don't you see, you will have offered him his money back; it shows you are in earnest. Yes, I should hate to dispense with that; and to tell the truth, I've already arranged with Mr. Norton for the use of the money. He quite agrees with me that we should leave nothing undone that will give our case authority. When it gets to trial, I expect that we will find that Benson has not been quite so inactive as he seems. He has influence and he has money, and he will use them both; that's a foregone conclusion. This is going to rip the town wide open, Mrs. Landray; nothing like this has ever happened here before; no case of exactly the same calibre has ever been brought to trial in the county.”

He took his leave of her with some precipitation, for he feared the riot of his own enthusiasm. He had doubted and feared, but now the case was assured; and the dinky little Queen Anne on Norton's vacant lot seemed to be digging itself a cellar among the roses; and then it grew as never a house had grown before, until he could fancy himself approaching it with springing step, and Clara, that paragon of charming femininity, waiting for him just inside the door.

That night Stephen went to see Gibbs. The general had prepared for the meeting with unnecessary elaboration. He had induced his Julia to retire to a neighbour's.

“She don't know yet that anything's wrong between you and Jake, and I hope to get you back on a sane basis before I tell her you've had this little flare up. My dear boy, I want you to put your case in my hands and leave it all to me; a little tact, you know—”

“My dear general, you don't understand the situation,” said Stephen, but he had no intention of telling him the nature of their difference, he had too much regard for Gibbs. He could not shake his faith in Benson. That would come soon enough.

“I ain't asking to know the ins and outs of your little difference,” said Gibbs magnanimously. “I take it, it was just a friendly little quarrel, that I can patch up in about ten seconds when the time comes for me to take a hand in the matter.”

Stephen shook his head.

“Now, you don't mean that you ain't willing to patch it up?” expostulated Gibbs.

“I should like to retain Uncle Jake's affection—”

“Well, I don't reckon that's entirely out of your reach, Steve. Let me say something to him as coming from you; I'll wait until the time's ripe, trust me for that,” urged the general. “He's told me I mustn't mention your name again in his hearing, but I'll risk it. He can't put on those airs with me; I ain't no patience with such damn nonsense anyhow, and he knows it! Let me tell him you regret what's happened—I don't know what it is, and I don't ask to know—but just let me tell him you are sorry. I want to see you back there both for his sake and for your own. I know Jake Benson, I know him better than he knows himself; and if you say I may, I'll lodge the sort of an idea with him that'll stick. Let me fix it up for you, Steve,” he entreated.

“No, you must say nothing, general. In fact there is nothing you can say.”

“Don't let your pride obscure your reason, Steve, you got too much at stake to act this way. You can't afford to affront him.”

“But I've not affronted him, in the sense you mean; you will know all there is to know before long, and then you will understand.”

“And you won't let me say a word to him?” grieved Gibbs.

“It can only make trouble for you, general, and nothing can come of it.”

“You shouldn't have lost your temper, Steve. Of course, I know he's rather exacting at times—”

“No, I've nothing to complain of; he has always been kindness itself to me. I appreciate your wish to help me, though I can't make use of it.”

“Just let me edge in a word now and then,” urged the general. “My disagreement with Uncle Jake is not of the nature you suppose, and is not to be adjusted. The breach can only go on widening. I am sorry to have to tell you this.”

“You don't mean you broke with him for good and all!” wailed Gibbs.

“That's about the amount of the matter.”

“But you can't afford to, Steve.”

“It's an extravagance in which I am going to indulge myself, at any rate,” said Stephen, smiling sadly at the old man.

“I thought it was just some little difference,” said the general. “You're sure you don't exaggerate?”

“I fear I don't. But I thank you for your wish to serve me.”

“It was for him as well as you, Steve. You been everything to him. Now he's got only me, and we'll doze over our wine night after night as we did before you came—well, I'm sorry there's nothing I can do, but I suppose you know best. Well, I hope it will work out right, for I've set my heart on your getting his money one of these days. I don't want to see it go to some damn charity!”

Wade had told Virginia that their first step would be to offer Benson the five thousand dollars he had paid for the land. She had not understood that she would have to make this demand in person, but later Wade made this point clear to her.

“Of course it's not a thing one would care to do if one were going to pick out just the things they'd like to do,” said Wade, smiling into her face. “But we'll catch him at his office when only old Gibbs and the bookkeeper are there; they'll do very well as witnesses,” he explained.

“And I must go there—but not alone!”

“No, no, I'll go with you.”

Virginia looked at him doubtingly.

“It never occurred to me that I should have to do this, Mr. Wade,” she said.

“I don't expect the law is ever very pleasant to any one except the lawyers, but I should think this would be a rather more difficult occasion for Mr. Benson than for any one else.”

“Does Stephen know what I shall have to do?”

“I don't think he does.”

“Then he'd better not be told until it is all over.”

“Probably not,” agreed Wade.

“If it were not for his sake I should not care to make this demand; but don't you see, he will have absolutely nothing unless this suit is won. It is most important that the money should be recovered.”

“It is,” said Wade.

“And you have no doubt but the suit will be won?” she asked anxiously.

“Well, of course, one can never tell; but I've put the question to myself many times in the last few days, and I feel certain of the outcome. I think we had best get the preliminary steps over with as quickly as possible.” He was aware that the interview with Benson would only seem the more impossible the longer it was deferred.

“I have not seen Mr. Benson in years,” said Virginia thoughtfully. “Once I should not have thought it possible for him to wrong any one—”

“Well, we know in Stephen's case that he was hard enough—to call it by no other name,” said Wade.

“Yes, that is true.”

“My dear Mrs. Landray, there is nothing extraordinary in the situation. I am sorry to say it, but suits of this sort are far from uncommon. You had every confidence in Mr. Benson, and he saw his opportunity. Men play for riches without much thought of anything but the stakes. Not to get found out is the principal thing.”

But Virginia was not giving any attention to Mr. Wade's slipshod views on morality. She was thinking of the Benson she had once known; the Benson who had sacrificed himself to meet her lightest wish, whose kindness had seemed infinite. He could not have wronged her and remained the man she Had known. The change had begun then, and it had gone on, and the manifestation of it had come to her in many ways; in his treatment of Stephen's father, and now in the case of Stephen himself. The thought of the two Stephens always stiffened the spirit of her resentment against this former friend.

“I think the sooner we get it over with, the better,” said Wade. “What do you say to some day next week?”

“Is there any reason why we should wait?” asked Virginia.

“None whatever, but I thought you might prefer to.”

“No, I will see Mr. Benson at once.”

Wade's eyes sparkled.

“Mr. Benson is usually in his office between eleven and twelve. If I call here with a carriage and the money at half-past ten tomorrow, will you be ready?”

“Yes.”

“I declare, Mrs. Landray, you are almost as good as a man! We are sure to find old Gibbs there, and Miss Murphy, the bookkeeper. The thing will be over with in a moment; the anticipation is much the worst part of it.”

“Come at half-past ten,” said Virginia; and Wade hurried down town to see Norton.

He stopped at his office just long enough to write a note to Stephen, whom he asked to drop in on him at half-past ten the next day, and to wait there for him until he came. He wanted to get him out of the way until Virginia should have had her interview with Benson, when it would be too late for him to interfere to any purpose.

The next morning, assisted by Jane, Virginia dressed for the ordeal with more than her usual care.

“Where is Stephen?” she asked of the latter.

“He has just gone to see Mr. Wade, dear. He had a note from him this morning asking him to call at the office, so he told me.”

By turns Virginia was hot and cold, but her composure was steady and unshaken, though when they heard the carriage drive up to the gate, she sat down abruptly and stared rather helplessly at Jane; yet a moment later when she descended the stairs, all her firmness had returned.

On the way downtown Wade carefully outlined the points she was to cover.

“You think you can do it, Mrs. Landray?” he asked anxiously; “You don't think it will be too much for you?”

“It is nothing I should care to do for the pleasure of it,” said Virginia, with a gleam of nervous humour at the thought. She set her lips firmly. “I think I can remember all you say. You will go in with me?”

“Oh, yes, you don't think I'd desert you?” he said reproachfully. He was in a fever of excitement, though no one would have guessed it from his manner.

“Then stand close at my side where I can touch you if I want to,” said Virginia.

“I'll be right there, Mrs. Landray,” he answered laughing. “Still I don't see why you should feel it. Benson is the one who has done wrong. All you want is the land, and I've the money here for him, if he'll only take it.”

The carriage drew up at the curb in front of Benson's office, and Wade opened the door and sprang out and helped Virginia to descend. He looked closely into her face, but beyond that it was quite colorless, it betokened nothing of her feeling at that moment. He could not help seeing what a fine and imposing figure she made. He noted the firm set of her lips, and knew she would be fully equal to the occasion.

For a moment Virginia paused before entering the building and glanced about her. Perhaps she did this unconsciously, but Wade thought he understood her feeling.

“Courage!” he said.

She entered the building and went swiftly up the single flight of steps that led to Benson's office. Wade made as if to offer her his arm, but by a quick gesture she declined it. He kept his glance fixed on her face. He would have been quick to detect any sign of wavering on her part; but her face had become a mask which hid all emotion.

They entered the office. In the outer room sat Gibbs writing at his desk, with his bald head just showing where he bent above his work. At another desk Miss Murphy was similarly occupied. An arch which could be closed with folding doors, separated the outer office from the inner and more private room, and here sat Benson. But he was not alone. Dr. Ward, the Episcopal clergyman was with him, and they were talking together.

Wade glanced about him with a swift turn of the head. He saw Gibbs and Miss Murphy; and beyond the arch, Benson and Dr. Ward; and a slight smile parted his lips. Dr. Ward's unlooked-for presence only added to the dramatic value of the moment that was to come, and Wade's alert mind saw beyond the present. It would be all over town in a few hours, and he would be the most talked of lawyer in the county. He nodded pleasantly to Gibbs, who had glanced up from his writing, and whose eye he caught. He smiled at Miss Murphy, who was pretty, and turned to Virginia.

“Courage!” he whispered between his teeth.

Virginia advanced straight to the wide opening between the two rooms. She did not see Gibbs, and she did not see Miss Murphy; though she was conscious of their presence in the room. But she did see Benson, and knew in a vague sort of way that he was seated at his desk talking with a man, but she did not realize who that man was until afterward.

When he saw Virginia, white-faced, but resolute, and determined, Benson realized what was to follow, what was indeed happening then; and he came slowly to his feet. He even took half a step forward to meet her.

“I am very glad to see you, Virginia,” he said in a low voice. “Won't you sit down for a moment? I shall be at liberty then.”

He wanted Dr. Ward to go before she hurled her charges at his head.

Virginia turned rather helplessly to Wade. She was conscious all at once that what had been a mere idea had suddenly become an entity, and the entity was this gentle smiling man whom she had come there to charge with fraud. But Wade gave her a quick glance of encouragement and nodded his head with cool decision. At the same moment he slipped into her hand the packet of bank-notes which Norton had furnished for the occasion.

In a clear voice, a voice that vibrated richly with feeling, Virginia began her demand. There was a gasping pause—and then a deathly stillness in the office which the sound of her voice filled, not loudly, but clearly and distinctly.

Miss Murphy let the pen slip from her fingers. It rolled across her desk, and fell noisily to the floor. Gibbs half rose from his chair, and stared at Virginia with bulging eyes fixed in a stare of unutterable astonishment. Every scrap of colour had fled from Benson's smooth-shaven cheeks, and his thin lips twitched, seeming to follow her words with some utterance of his own; but no sound escaped them. Word for word he kept up this dumb show of speech, while his fingers played nervously, absently, the while, with some papers he held in his hand.

But of all, Dr. Ward was the first to recover himself. He uttered a startled exclamation, once the full meaning of what Virginia was saying was clear to him, and took a step toward her.

“You're mad, Mrs. Landray!” he cried.

Apparently he had it in his mind to stop her by some physical act, but Wade put out his hand and waved him away.

“Don't you see—don't you understand—this is a matter of business, let Mrs. Landray go on! This is no concern of yours,” he said in an unshaken voice, and glared angrily at the would-be interrupter.

But Virginia had already finished. There was a brief pause.

“The money, Mrs. Landray, you have it in your hand,” said Wade, grimly insistent that the farce should be played out; and obedient to his prompting, Virginia took a forward step and extended the bundle of notes.

Benson raised his head and looked at her. Then he said in the same low voice in which he had before spoken.

“I don't know what you mean, Virginia. No, the sale of the land will have to stand;” and he turned imperturbably to Dr. Ward.

“He has answered you, Mrs. Landray. We will go,” said Wade quietly; and they moved back through the outer office, past the astonished Gibbs, and past Miss Murphy. It was only when they reached the head of the flight of steps that Virginia spoke.

“I forgot nothing? I said all that was necessary for me to say?” she asked.

He realized that she would have been ready to return if this had been needful.

“Indeed you did!” he chuckled.

But as they went down-stairs her gloved hand rested quite unconsciously on his arm, and he noted how it shook, and divined that the ordeal through which she had just passed had been perhaps greater than he had at first supposed. When they reached the street, she turned to him and said:

“You need not go back to the house with me. I really think I prefer to go alone—only tell the man to drive fast, please.”

“But hadn't you better let me go with you?” he urged.

“No, you are very kind. And please don't come to see me until to-morrow; this has been enough for one day.”