BUT to bring himself to the point where he could speak freely and without reserve to Benson, was more difficult even than Stephen had conceived it would be. With singular patience and tact, Wade left him alone with his purpose, and when they met, carefully avoided all allusion to the half-hearted promise Stephen had given him that day they left his aunt's.

The days wasted, and he did nothing. He would tell Benson some evening. But for a week Gibbs was a guest at dinner each night, and the opportunity was denied him. His courage grew cold, his self-imposed task became more and more difficult as he waited.

The responsibility he had assumed, imbittered him against his aunt, and he hated the very sight of Wade. Why had he ever been urged to this step! If Benson promptly turned him into the street, it would be no more than he might expect; certainly he should never question the justice of the act.

But at last his opportunity came. They were at last alone together. Gibbs had gone home from the office, and they had dined by themselves; now was his chance. But he was slow to avail himself of it. However, Benson himself furnished him with an opening. They had left the dinner-table and were seated in the library.

“Stephen,” he said quietly, “what was it that Crittendon sent your aunt, have you ever heard?”

Stephen started.

“Oh, yes,” he said.

“I didn't know; you never mentioned the matter. I trust your aunt was not distressed on receiving the papers—they were papers, were they not?”

“Yes, papers.”

“A letter, perhaps?” said Benson. Stephen's reticence struck him as being odd. He glanced sharply at him.

“No, it was not a letter,” said Stephen slowly. “Merely some business papers.”

Benson turned toward him quickly.

“What is that you tell me?” he asked. “All of Stephen Landray's papers were in my hands.”

“Not business in that sense, Uncle Jake; accounts and memorandum of one sort and another.”

“Oh, I see,” said Benson drily.

“There is one matter they don't quite understand,” faltered Stephen.

“What's that?” asked Benson.

“Why, it seems it is something about a thousand acres of land,” he hesitated.

“Yes?” said Benson, but his cheeks grew like white parchment. There was a brief pause.

“It seems”—said Stephen, with stolid determination—“It seems my grandfather and his brother owned some land my aunt knew nothing about—” he came to a painful pause.

“What do you mean, Stephen?” asked Benson in his usual calm voice. “She was certainly informed by me.”

“No, she only knew of one thousand acres, and it appears there were two thousand.”

“And I suppose your aunt does not understand,” said Benson, smiling faintly.

Stephen took heart at this.

“I told them there was some mistake!” he said impulsively.

The lawyer drew in his breath sharply.

“Oh, it's that, is it; and you told them it was a mistake? Whom do you mean by—them?” he added sharply.

“Ben Wade, and my aunt.”

“So Ben's advising her.” Benson seemed to be making a mental note of this for subsequent reference.

“He's been going over the old accounts for her—yes.”

“And what do they find?” demanded Benson calmly.

The young fellow looked at him wretchedly.

“You can speak quite frankly to me, Stephen,” he said with dignity. “In almost fifty years of active practice this is not the first explanation that has been asked of me. I am not so sensitive as you appear to think.”

“My aunt was always under the impression, uncle Jake, that she sold you only a thousand acres of land.”

“I was not the purchaser. She'd better refresh her memory there. Stark bought the land, I merely acted for her in the matter.”

“She is sure Stark only paid for a thousand acres.”

“The deed will show what he bought, and what she sold,” said Benson, with cold composure. “Unfortunately, Stark is dead, and the land has probably changed hands many times in all these years; but the deed will show what she sold—”

“The records show that she sold two thousand acres.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have seen the copies.”

“Humph! They have sent for those?”

“Yes.”

Benson meditated in silence for a moment.

“It's a great pity your aunt's acquaintance with her own affairs should have been so imperfect, but perhaps I should have seen that every point was clear to her mind. Since the records show that she sold two thousand acres, it is quite evident she parted with all the land she owned in Belmont County; and Stark is dead; however, I blame myself for the obscurity which seems to have surrounded the transaction. I will take on myself the responsibility of seeing that she is satisfied, though I admit no legal claim, I was merely her lawyer. In the morning I will send her check in payment for this thousand acres which she thinks she did not sell, but which according to the records Stark seems to have bought. It is hardly worth while to enter into a dispute about so trivial a matter. Stark paid five thousand dollars, as your aunt supposed, for a thousand acres; I will send her a like sum for the other thousand.”

Stephen gulped a great free breath. This was a simple dignified solution of the whole difficulty, but in the same breath he remembered that it was not five thousand but forty-five thousand dollars than his aunt expected to recover. How was he going to explain this to Benson. He sat staring blankly at the carpet at his feet.

“I think”—and the lawyer's voice was frigid, while a thin smile relaxed his shaven lips—“I think Ben Wade will find I am not to be trifled with in this manner. I have been disposed to think well of him in the past. I trust I shall be able to make my displeasure sufficiently evident in the future.”

But Stephen said nothing to this, he was not caring just then what happened to Wade. Benson's resentment and displeasure could take what form it might there, it mattered not to him.

“Certainly I have no explanation to offer,” said the lawyer haughtily. “For many years I managed your aunt's affairs to the best of my ability; she is a troublesome, a dangerous, and an ungrateful woman. Yet I hold Wade responsible; of course, he is back of the whole agitation.”

But Stephen's silence, and Stephen's face, which spoke plainly of his utter misery, distressed Benson more than he could have thought possible. He had no feeling of resentment toward Stephen, but he wanted to hear him speak, to hear him declare himself; he longed to hear him say generously that his confidence and affection were unshaken. For years he had felt entirely self-sufficient; he had desired nothing of any man; but now he found that he was suddenly hungry for these expressions of trust and love. The loneliness of his life came back and smote him. He was growing old, and only Stephen had brought youth to his door. Did the boy doubt him? In his first feverish impulse to bind him to him at any price, he was almost tempted to tell him the whole truth, of his love for Virginia Lan-dray, that so base a motive as that of gain had never entered into his mind, but this he put aside as a momentary weakness. He would not offer any explanation to any one, but in the morning he would send for Wade, and pay for that land, this done, he would have saved himself with dignity and self-respect, and he would have saved himself in the boy's eyes. And then he thought of the price he had received for the land, in the excitement of the moment he had quite overlooked this point. Was it possible that Wade had carried his investigation as far as that! He could believe that once started he would go to the bottom of things. He remembered to have heard Stephen tell Gibbs only the night before that Wade had been out of town for a day or two recently. Very white of face he turned to Stephen, who met his glance miserably enough, and with a mute appeal.

“Go on!” he commanded harshly. “What more have you to tell me?”

“There's something about the price you got for that land,” said the young man huskily.

Benson shook his head.

“You'll have to be more explicit, Stephen,” he said cautiously; “and you seem to have forgotten that I have just told you Stark bought that land.”

“They say he transferred it to you.”

“Subsequently he did, but that is neither here nor there. It was my privilege to buy it from Stark if I wished to.” He smiled almost tolerantly. “I hope your friend Ben Wade does not dispute my right in that particular.”

“He seems to think that Stark merely acted for you; that you were the actual purchaser.”

“That is the merest conjecture, Stephen. I must say that Ben's imaginative faculty is well developed.” He was feeling tolerably secure again, evidently Wade had not gone as deep as he had at first feared was the case. But Stephen's next words undeceived him.

“I haven't made it clear to you, Uncle Jake,” he said, in a low voice. “But Ben asserts that you sold the land for fifty thousand dollars, that you induced Aunt Virginia to sell it by representing that it was valueless—or nearly so.”

Stephen felt that the worst was over with; now Benson knew all that he knew. He did not look at him, he could not meet his glance. There was a long pause, then Benson said slowly.

“To have handed over five thousand dollars was one thing, I might do that to save myself from possible annoyance; but when they talk of sums like this, I am not so sure that my first idea was not a mere weakness.” He rose from his chair. “Good-night, Stephen. I think I will go to my room.” He made an uncertain step toward the door, and Stephen sprang to his side.

“For God's sake, don't think—don't think—” he could not bring himself to say it. It was like a fresh insult to this hurt man.

“What am I not to think?” asked Benson.

“That I knew anything of this until they sent for me! They wanted me to tell you, and I agreed, I thought it would be less painful to you if you heard it from me, otherwise Wade—'

“Wade! That scum! That scoundrel! He'd better keep out of my way!” cried the old man, his eyes blazing.

“I told them,” Stephen hurried on, “that they were mistaken.”

“You were right, Stephen, they are mistaken—but the ingratitude of it!” he stumbled weakly toward the door.

“Let me go with you to your room!” cried Stephen, with a sudden feeling of great tenderness, but Benson waved him away with a tremulous hand.

“Good-night,” he murmured in a broken voice, and went from the room.

Stephen heard his slow step in the hall, his slow step as he mounted the stairs, and knew that he was clinging weakly to the hand-rail as he climbed. He threw himself down in his chair. He had done all they had demanded of him; and he felt that in doing this he had dealt a mortal blow to the man, who more than any other, claimed his love and faith. In that moment of shame and great bitterness, he hated his aunt, he hated Wade, even as he hated and despised himself.

But what if Benson offered no explanation, what if he refused to see Wade or his aunt; and he believed him capable of some such course of action; the hideous thing would have to go forward; his aunt would be urged on by Wade's implacable zeal. He sunk his head in his hands, and endeavoured to think of some way in which matters could be adjusted. He had confidently expected Benson to offer an explanation that would be full and conclusive, and show luminously the utter futility of further action; but he had not done this.

“He knows it is not necessary with me,” the boy thought generously. “He knows just where I stand.” Yet he was far from satisfied. Benson owed it both to himself and to his aunt, to explain the whole circumstance of the sale of the land, and his part in it; otherwise, and the conviction made him sick and dizzy, his aunt's only course would be to take the case into the courts, and there force the explanation from him that he was unwilling to make. He thought he understood Benson's pride, and his sense of offended honour; he could sympathize with him here fully, but he felt that it was not wise to preserve silence in the face of these charges; he must be made to see this; in the morning when he was calmer and less shaken by his emotion he would himself tell him.

And in the morning Benson ate his eggs and toast, and drank his coffee, in placid dignity and apparently at peace with all the world, but under his calm of manner there lurked an austerity that warned Stephen that he must not revive the subject of the preceding evening.

Benson was in haste to quit the house, and Stephen finished his breakfast with no companion but his own troubled thoughts. He felt the need of some one with whom he could talk, and decided that he would see Wade at once and tell him what had happened. He wanted to learn what Ben would do now that Benson had declined to make any explanation.

Early as it was, he found Wade at his office, but he had evidently not taken up the business of the day for he was in his shirt-sleeves and smoking a cob pipe; his feet rested on the corner of his desk, and his chair was comfortably tilted at a convenient angle. When Stephen entered the room, the unusual gravity of his aspect told Wade that he had a purpose in his call, and he guessed the purpose. He brought his feet down with a thud to the floor, and slewed his chair around until he faced his caller.

“Well, what's wrong, Landray?” he asked briskly. “First though make yourself comfortable, will you smoke?”

“Everything's wrong,” said Stephen shortly, as he threw himself down in a chair.

“You've had your little talk with Benson then?” said Wade quickly.

“Yes.”

“How do you stand with him now?”

“How should I stand?” demanded Stephen indignantly.

“Oh, he took what you had to say in good part, did he? Well, I'm glad of that, Steve.”

“Certainly,” said Stephen.

“Well, I am glad,” said Wade. “Just before you came in I was thinking—it hadn't occurred to me before—that in asking you to bring this matter to his notice, we were requiring too much of you. You see, it might have prejudiced your own interests with him,” He glanced sharply at Stephen. “But it didn't.”

“No,” said Stephen drily. “It didn't.”

“Well, I am glad,” repeated Wade, in a tone of hearty good-will. “I suppose you have something to tell me. What's he going to do?” he added.

“So far as I know—nothing.”

“You don't mean to say that he is going to try and ignore us? Do you mean to tell me he has no explanation to offer?” said Wade vehemently.

“I don't think you'll ever get a word out of him,” said Stephen.

“You don't! Oh, yes, I will,” said Wade easily. “I bet I get a good many words out of him before I'm done with him. He can't ignore me, for I've no notion of being ignored! A dignified silence won't work with me. But it's pretty clear that the reason he wants to keep quiet is because there is nothing he can say. You don't want to think it, and maybe you can't—but it's as clear a case of fraud as one would want to see. Now, I know Jake Benson, and if there was anything he could say, he'd say it fast enough; he'd never run the risk of his coming to trial, not for one minute he wouldn't! You are sure he feels all right toward you?” he gazed into his friend's face with a comprehensive eye.

“No, he doesn't blame me,” Stephen assured him wearily.

“I suppose it's me,” said Wade grinning. It pleased his vanity to realize that he had suddenly become of importance to Benson. It raised him pleasantly in his own estimation.

“Yes, it's you. He blames you altogether.”

“But it's quite wrong of him to have any personal feeling—I haven't, you know. I suppose, though, he's had that money so long he thinks he ought to be let alone to enjoy it for the rest of his days. Well, I'm sorry for the old gentleman; it's hard lines; but don't it beat all how these things round in on a fellow? You think the skeleton's laid away, and then, by golly! it takes on flesh and stalks out of your closet with the bloom of youth on its cheeks, and ready to play hell with you!”

Stephen stared gloomily at him.

“What are you going to do next?” he asked at last.

“Why, get the thing to trial as soon as I can,” said Wade briskly. “Look here, I've got the complete record of the transaction, not a paper missing. You may as well look it over; it shows up strong.'

“No,” said Stephen shortly.

“Suppose you tell me just how the matter came up, and what he said. I promise you I'll use nothing of what you say.”

Stephen's cheeks reddened angrily.

“I thought this was a matter of mutual confidence,” he said haughtily.

“Well, so it is, that's what I say, but I'd like to bet that Benson said nothing that would be of any use to anybody. But I understand just how you feel, and frankly, I don't see how you can afford to take sides with us. I am trying to make your aunt see this, but she will only see that you are a Landray, and that this is a holy war we are going to wage against Benson for the recovery of the Landray fortune. For the money itself as money, I don't think she cares the snap of her finger; and if you'll believe me, Steve, she's doing the whole thing for you!”

“For me!” cried Stephen.

“For you. She has no confidence in Benson, you see, and she doesn't think he will ever do anything for you, so she's going to take care of your future. She's a remarkable character; her motives are as plain and straight as a string; no ins and outs to her mental processes!”

“Do you think I could induce her to drop the whole affair right here and now?” demanded Stephen eagerly.

“Not if I can balk you,” said Wade, with simple candour. “Steve, if this thing goes through I'll be building one of those dinky little Queen Anne's up along side of Norton's big house. He's got a vacant lot he ain't going to want, and it's at my disposal the minute I'm ready to build. Elinor says she's told you all about Clara. Wait until you see her!—there is a girl!” he sucked at his pipe with smiling wistful lips. “Don't you take a hand in this and spoil my little romance! I've had a hell of a hard row to hoe, and old Benson won't mind the loss of forty or fifty thousand dollars once he familiarizes himself thoroughly with the idea; and I'm not alone in wanting to see the thing pushed for all there is in it. Mrs. Walsh and the Nortons are tremendously anxious to see your aunt get the best of Benson”—he chuckled at some memory—“Mrs. Walsh thinks it would be lovely for her to get all that money—I heard her say, 'You know you need it, Virginia, and deserve it.' And look here, Steve, your aunt's got nothing much to anticipate in the way of money unless she sells her cottage and rents or buys a cheaper place. You're interested in Benson. Now, try and see her side of it, too. I understand she did everything she could for your father; and you owe her something on his account, just as you owe Benson something on your own account. Now, I've looked into Benson's affairs as far as I could, and I've learned some things about him that are not generally known. In the first place, when your grandfather. Thomas Benson, failed in business, Benson was involved with him. From what I can learn I understand that he was pretty nearly ruined, and that he came out of the failure up to his neck in debt. It was at this critical moment in his fortunes that he got hold of that land. The price he got for it put him on his feet; he was shrewd and he was fortunate in all his investments. That was the beginning of his great wealth. Of course, he's been kind to you; one step in the wrong direction don't prove that a man's soul is sown to corruption; but the way I look at it, it was really your aunt's money you have been spending. That he was able to be generous to you, must have been a sort of sop to his conscience.”

Stephen writhed in his chair. Wade, seeking to palliate and explain Benson's wrong doing was more painful than Wade denouncing him for it, for his argument seemed born of the gospel of expediency; and what Stephen saw in the situation, Wade, thick-skinned and callous, with a shrewd intelligence that he had developed at the expense of all finer feeling, did not see even vaguely. He was remote from spiritual consciousness of any sort; he dwelt in an atmosphere of unrelated facts.

“I've gotten all the points your aunt can give me,” said Wade. “And I've heard from Southerland, who seems ready enough to help us. He came here to make his first offer for the land. He wanted to pick it up cheap, but Benson wouldn't have it. He went on and saw the land himself, saw there was coal on it; then he told your aunt he had found a buyer for it and on behalf of this buyer offered five thousand dollars; mind you, he was her legal representative at the time; she had absolute confidence in him. He told her the land was of no value, and urged her to sell. Your aunt always supposed the sale was made to Stark, but Stark never actually held the land; he at once turned it over to Benson, who was then ready to do business with Southerland. Is this clear to you?”

It was horribly clear to Stephen. These facts that Wade had gathered, could only point to one thing. Wade continued:

“I've looked over the old records here, of that time, and I find that Benson held not a single unencumbered piece of property; but within a few weeks of the transaction with Southerland he began to clear things off; and from that time on, the records are thick with transfers of real estate to him. I venture to say, that but for that money he wouldn't be worth a hundred thousand dollars to-day. Of course, I'm outside the strictly legal aspects of the case, but I want to know my ground, and you and I, Stephen, are bound to consider the matter with a dash of sentiment thrown in. Of course we can realize just how great a temptation had presented itself to him. Your aunt had no one, she trusted him absolutely; your father was in the army, he was not a man of any wide business experience and there was nothing to fear from him. Benson had convinced your aunt that the land was worthless, and that she had better get out of it what she could. The game played itself, and he had the strongest motives for dishonesty. Such an opportunity could not have come at a time when he would have been more likely to use it to his own advantage.”

“How do you know all this?” demanded Stephen, astonished at the array of facts Wade had gathered.

“The old records at the court-house, what your aunt remembers, and then my father learned his trade in the old Benson shops, and knows a good deal about your grandfather's failure; and I've picked up a good deal in talk about town.”

In spite of himself conviction was fastening itself upon Stephen, just as Wade intended it should. These facts—many of them outside the cognizance of the law, as he knew—Ben had gathered solely for his benefit. To Stephen the situation took on tragic and awful possibilities. The justice that his aunt demanded, found an echo in his own heart. But there was Benson, the man who had done everything for him, who had denied him nothing, who had been a father to him. He would have liked to escape from the whole miserable tangle, but there was no escape for him, and it was apparent to him that he would either have to sacrifice his aunt or Benson.

He quitted his chair and fell to pacing the floor, and as he tramped to and fro, Wade's relentless logic, the logic of stubborn facts and figures, poured in a steady stream into his ears.

Then Wade went into the purely legal aspects of the case. He told Stephen just what he hoped to do, and how he hoped to do it. Perhaps this was not entirely discreet, but the case he saw, with its spectacular and dramatic possibilities, was like wine to him, it loosed his tongue and made him reckless.

At last Stephen paused in his walk to say,

“But you don't imagine, do you, that Mr. Benson will remain inactive? Suppose he comes forward with facts that offset your facts.”

Wade shook his head.

“He can't do it, Steve. We've run him to earth, and he knows it. The game played itself for him, and now it's playing itself for us.”