HE walked into Colonel Willetts's office with a pugnacious consciousness of being twenty years older than on the day before. He would talk business in a business-like way. He was prepared to fight, to overcome opposition, to convince the colonel against the colonel's will.

“Hello, Tommy!” called out Colonel Willetts, cheerily. He was standing beside the stock ticker. “Have a seat, my boy.”

Tommy was glad at the welcome, but also subtly disappointed. It is easier to fight a fighter than to fight an amiable friend.

“Good afternoon, Colonel. I came to—”

“Just wait a minute until I see the closing price of my latest mistake, won't you?” He ran the tape through his fingers. “Not so bad! A kind Providence may yet save me. Now what can I do for you?”

“Providence has heard your prayers, Colonel. I came to show you that your plain duty is to become a stockholder of the Tecumseh Motor Company with the rest of your family.”

“They tell me the younger the shark the more voracious it is.”

“Colonel,” said Tommy, earnestly, because the colonel was not taking Tommy's mission very seriously, “ten years from to-day, when New York real estate—”

“Hold on. I know disaster is approaching this fair metropolis and skipping Dayton.” The colonel held up his hands. “I succumb!”

“The entire two thousand shares, Colonel, of course,” said Tommy, prepared to compromise. “Sit down, young man.”

Tommy sat down and looked expectant. Colonel Willetts pursued, seriously: “I've looked over your papers again. You vouch for their accuracy?” The colonel had put on his martial air and managed to look not only stem but cold. “Yes, sir, I do!” answered Tommy, firmly. “You are sure of your figures?”

“Absolutely. But I'd like to call your attention to the fact that the company's plans have for an object not only to solve certain problems among our wage-earners, but also to insure the permanency of our dividends on a basis of eight per cent, per annum. There may be extra dividends, but we won't promise more than—”

“It is an iron-clad rule of mine never to have business dealings with personal friends. I prefer to make a gift of the amount than to regard it as an investment.” The colonel was frowning quite fiercely.

Tommy's heart leaped, for Colonel Willetts was a very rich man indeed. But he said, “A gift is, of course, out of the question.”

“That is why I have to break my rule two or three times a year. You wish friends to be interested in your Mr. Thompson's experiments. I don't blame you. No, I don't! But they might prove rather expensive. Yes, yes, I know you think they will be successful. Rivington telephoned to me that you were going to see Mead and Jim Wilson, and a few other unfortunate fathers of chums, but I'll save you the trouble. I shall make them think the experiment worth trying and we'll take a sporting chance. You owe it to us to warn us in time if things don't go right.”

Tommy hesitated. Loyalty was due to whom? Then his doubts cleared. Thompson, the wizard, wanted him to work for both the men and the stockholders! That would keep Tommy from doing injustice to either. That was Thompson's reason undoubtedly.

“I shall watch your interests as if they were mine—no, I'll watch more carefully.” Tommy spoke with decision.

“I have inquired about your company's standing. I find its rating high. Your father—” The colonel caught himself abruptly.

“Yes, sir?” Tommy's lips came together while Willetts walked to his desk and went through the motions of looking for some papers.

Then the colonel pursued: “Your father told me what you had been doing. He evidently thinks as much of Thompson as you do. And he gave me some confidential reports from the Metropolitan Bank's correspondents in Dayton. I—I guess the money is safe enough.” He looked at Tommy a trifle dubiously, but before Tommy could reassure him he went on, lightly, “And Marion wants me to send Rivington out there to have a miracle performed on him.”

“I wish he'd come,” said Tommy, eagerly.

“I don't!” said the colonel, shortly. “He is no black sheep in need of reform and—I don't mean to insinuate that you are, Tommy; but Rivington is all the son I've got, and I need him here, where his business interests will be. I expect him to come into the office next year. There's plenty of time.”

The colonel nodded to show that he knew what he was doing. He loved his son, and at times was really grateful that Rivington had no alarming fondness for disreputable things. Rivington was a gentleman and would behave accordingly.

He was a Willetts and, therefore, must concern himself with conserving his inheritance. It did not occur to the colonel that Rivington might live decently all his life and withal be a non-producer. If any one had said that to the colonel, doubtless the colonel would have said that Rivington did not need to be a producer. Tommy was faintly conscious that if Rivington worked trader Thompson for a few years he would greatly increase his own usefulness, but he merely said:

“I can't help wishing that Rivington and I might be together, Colonel.”

“I understand, my boy,” agreed the colonel, rather too hastily, Tommy thought. “Well, I'll take the two thousand shares. Have the stock put in the name of John B. Kendrick, my confidential clerk, who will give you a check for the two hundred thousand dollars. I'll apportion the stock later. I am too busy just now, and I know you are anxious to return to Dayton.”

Tommy's joy over his success was a complex affair. He had a boy's immaturity, but he could think straight enough. His father had done the obvious thing in having the bank's correspondents telegraph confidential reports about the Tecumseh's standing and reputation to New York business men, who would attach greater importance to such information than to Tommy's reports about Thompson, who really was the Tecumseh. Moreover, it was friendship and not eloquence or hard work that had persuaded Colonel Willetts to buy the stock. Thus there could be no sense of personal triumph. At all events, the deal was closed, his work was done, and Thompson's wish would be gratified, and Tommy would do his best to make it a safe investment for Colonel Willetts and his friends.

“I am much obliged, Colonel,” he said, trying to speak with the proper composure.

“Not to me, Tommy; to—er—Marion. Gad! how that girl boomed Dayton.” The colonel looked quickly at Tommy.

Everything else vanished from Tommy's mind, even the great work! He would tell her—But first he must say something to her father.

“I hope she—and you—will never be sorry you've done this. It means a lot to me and—”

“What commission do you get, Tommy?” asked the colonel, quizzically.

“None,” answered Tommy, quickly.

“Nonsense! You are entitled to at least two and a half per cent, and more—”

“It was a personal favor to me,” said Tommy, “because Mr. Thompson thought I could work better knowing I had interested friends in the company.”

The colonel rose to his feet. “Mr. Leigh, I have a favor to ask of you. If you think I am entitled to your protection and good wishes—” He paused and looked questioningly at Tommy.

“You are,” said the puzzled Tommy, quite earnestly.

“Then keep that damned man Thompson out of New York. Gad! he'd have us paying him for breathing. Now if you don't mind I'll write some letters and sign your check. You can have it certified if you wish.”

The colonel rang a bell. Mr. Kendrick appeared. He was a tall, well-built man, neatly dressed in black.

“Kendrick, this is Mr. Thomas Leigh. Make out a check for two hundred thousand dollars, payable to the Tecumseh Motor Company, and write a letter to—Got a middle name, Tommy?”

“Yes, sir—Francis.”

“To Mr. Thomas Francis Leigh, instructing him to have the two thousand shares of Tecumseh Motor Company which he has sold to me put in your name. I shall give instructions as to their disposition later. Good-by, Tommy. Confine your future visits to my residence. You are an expensive luxury down-town, son.” And Colonel Willetts shook hands warmly.

“Is he always like that?” Tommy asked Kendrick in the outer office.

“Always—when he buys something of which he is doubtful, to make himself think it will come out all right,” answered Kendrick, unsmilingly, and proceeded to make out a check for the two hundred thousand dollars as though it were for two hundred. A wonderful thing, this game of being rich, thought Tommy, to whom riches suddenly meant the slaying of a secret and the ability to make others happy.

Kendrick took the check in to the colonel for his signature, returned with it, sat down at a typewriter, and himself wrote the letter to Tommy, read it carefully, put the carbon copy of it away in a file marked “T,” signed the original with the colonel's name, “per J. B. K.,” and gave Tommy the letter with the check attached to it with a wire clip.

“Thank you,” said Tommy, very calmly. Two hundred thousand dollars!

“One moment, please. Will you kindly sign this receipt?”

Tommy kindly did so. Kendrick took it from him silently.

“Er—good afternoon?” said Tommy, who really wished to say a great deal more.

“Good afternoon!” said Kendrick, who did not.

“No man for the Tecumseh,” thought Tommy, as he walked out of the office—a successful man.

The colonel had spoken about getting the check certified. Tommy did not quite know how to go about it, but his father could tell him.

From the Willetts Building Tommy walked to his father's bank.

At the imposing entrance Tommy halted. He had never been inside. He looked at the huge gray building with an interest that was almost uncomfortable. People were straggling out. Nobody was going in. He saw by the clock on Trinity's steeple that it was after banking hours. He assumed that if he saw his father there would be no trouble in transacting his business, notwithstanding the hour.

He started toward the main entrance and suddenly halted in his tracks. He could not go in. Within that building worked his father, an old and trusted employee of the bank, who had educated his son too expensively for an old and trusted bank employee.

It was the birthplace of the secret!

Suddenly the huge gray building took on an accusing aspect, cold, menacing. The massive granite columns became sentinels on guard. He owed that building seventeen thousand dollars, and the granite columns knew it!

“I'll see him at home to-night!” decided Tommy.

His heart was beating at such a furious rate that he forgot about his success. The check for two hundred thousand dollars was merely a bit of waste paper. The vision of his work vanished utterly into a future that ceased to exist. The present was before him. What would Colonel Willetts say when he learned what his father had done, year after year! And what would the bank say? And what would everybody say to the beneficiary of that deed, innocent but none the less the sole beneficiary?

He thought of Dayton, his only refuge, his goal. He hurried away, his mind bent on reaching Day-ton as quickly as possible. There he would be among friends, among people who knew that he was penniless and willing to work and expiate another's error, among friends who knew only the Tommy Leigh he must be to the end of his life.

He walked on quickly, impelled by an irresistible desire to keep on walking until he arrived at Thompson's private office. Once more that overwhelming sense of solitude came upon him that he had felt when he alighted from the train in Dayton. Again he was alone in a strange and unfriendly place, alone in the world.

There was nobody in New York to whom he could talk. In Dayton there was no reason why he should not tell everything to Mr. Thompson or to Bill Byrnes or even to Mr. Grosvenor. They would stand by him after they knew. They were men who would be loyal to him. Therefore, he must be loyal to them, to the men who would ask him to do his work, knowing he was not to blame. The best men in the world these, his good friends, who alone of all men would understand how a man might do for love what his father had done. And here in New York where his father lived nobody would understand! There were no friends.

Out of bitterness came the recollection of Colonel Willetts's friendly words and generous help. But he could not be altogether grateful, for, if the secret were known, would Colonel Willetts be the same?

He did not know. But he did know it would not make any difference to Rivington. Certainly not, God bless him! And yet he could not tell Rivington, whom he loved as a brother. He dared not. And he could not tell Marion. She would not blame him. She would feel very sorry for him. She would say, softly, “Poor Tommy!” He saw her lips move as she said this. He saw her eyes, moist and luminous. He was sure of her—absolutely!

He drew in a deep breath. With the oxygen came courage. His fists clenched as the fighting mood returned. He would win out. Had he forgotten for a moment that he must fight until he had killed this thing that made his life a torture? He must not stop fighting a single second until he won out. And when that happened—

He saw Marion again. He heard her. She said, “Good boy, Tommy!”

Some one else said, “Hey, there, why don't you look where yer goin', you big slob?”

It was a newsboy into whom he had bumped. “Excuse me,” said Tommy, contritely.

“Aw, fergit it!” retorted the boy.

“I will!” said Tommy, thinking of something else. He would forget it!

He walked into the nearest telephone pay station and called up Marion. He was just in time. She was just about to leave the house to do some shopping, she told him.

“I was coming up to say good-by,” he said. “Can't we have tea somewhere? I'll get Rivington. I think he's at the club.”

“When are you going?”

“To-night at eight-thirty.”

“Must you? I thought you'd stay—”

“Must!” he said, miserably but proudly.

“I'm so sorry. Well, I'll meet you at Sherry's at five.”

“Don't forget,” he said.

“I won't keep you waiting,” she assured him.

He left the telephone-booth smiling, master of himself. His youth made his sense of relative values imperfect. That made him harrow his own feelings with the utmost ease, and also made him cease the self-torture with equal facility.

He rode up-town, thinking quite comfortably of his departure from New York and of his arrival in Dayton, and succeeded in strengthening his own resolve to put an end to the secret somehow.

He arrived at his college dub. Luck was with him. Rivington, having been a steady loser, was still playing billiards.

“Hello, Tommy, how did you make out?”

“Complete success!”

“Great-oh!” And Rivington made a mis-cue.

“Great-oh!” echoed Rivington's opponent. “Thank you, Tommily.”

Rivington approached Tommy and shook hands warmly. “Did he take the whole cheese?”

“Yes. He's a brick! And, say, we are to meet Marion at five at Sherry's.”

“What for?”

“I'm going back to Dayton to-night.”

“Are you crazy?” exclaimed Rivington, stepping back in alarm.

“I work for a living, lad,” said Tommy, paternally.

“Well, you'd better give it up before it is too late. Why, Tommy, I had planned a series of professional visits—Ha, that ends the succession of scratches, James.” And he left Tommy for the billiard-table.

Tommy looked at him, at Jim Rogers, at the other fellow-alumni about the other tables. A pleasant enough life, mild, wholesome amusements for decent chaps, who enjoyed one another's company—and didn't work. No life for him!

He recalled the oily odors of the shop. They made him almost homesick! No life for him, this!

“Remember,” he called to Rivington, “I'll come back for you in thirty-two minutes.”

“It would be a kindness to take him out now, Tommily,” remarked Jim Rogers.

Nice children, these, thought old Mr. Thomas P. Leigh as he left the billiard-room.

Rivington's luck had turned when Tommy called for him; but he only grumbled a little as they left the dub. He was very fond of his sister; and then there was his loyalty toward an unfortunate friend whose fortunes he had shared at college.

They found a table in a corner—selected by Tommy as far from the madding crowd as he could get it—and while they waited few Marion, who had promised not to keep them waiting, Tommy told Rivington all about his deal with Colonel Willetts. Rivington did not appear interested enough in the investment to suit Tommy, so young Mr. Leigh explained sternly what Thompson meant to do, and told him what manner of man Thompson was and all about the experiments, and why all the stockholders must be interested in the work and the experiments, until Rivington became quite excited.

“Say, that's some man, Tommy!”

Tommy smiled tolerantly and nodded.

“Don't be so confoundedly superior,” cried Rivington. “You needn't think you can make me believe that your experimental boss has put a new brain in your coco.”

“No, the old brain was all right.”

“What?” almost shrieked Rivington.

“I'll tell you what he has done, though,” said Tommy, seriously. “He has given me new eyes to see with.”

“When they begin to think they see things,” said Rivington, solemnly, “it's a sign a mighty intellect is tottering.” Then Rivington, seeing that Tommy was still serious, became serious in turn. “Tom, that's what I've always said. If they'd only make the work interesting they'd make you think business was your pet elective and unappreciated geniuses would gladly put in ten horns a day. But what do they give you instead? A last year's advertisement of a special sale of cod-liver oil, and you trying to work off four inches of waist-line. I am going to tell my honored father to take a tip from Thompson. There's Marion!” And he rose to his feet that she might see him.

She came toward them, smiling. “How do you do, Tommy?” She shook hands man fashion, grasping Tommy's hand firmly and looking straight into his eyes.

The sight of her filled Tommy with pleasure. Her presence made itself felt to him also in exquisitely subtle ways. It brought to him a wonderful sense of companionship, that provided him with a receptacle wherein to he might pour out torrentially whatever it was that his soul craved to give forth. And he was leaving all these things to undertake the work in Dayton which had seemed so important to him! He wondered whether he would be satisfied to live in New York if things were different—a life like Rivington's, for instance? And he was instantly conscious that he was older and wiser than Rivington.

But even if he could—and he wasn't sure he could—he really couldn't. And the reason he could not was a reason that Marion must never know. But he had to tell her something.

“I didn't think it would come so hard to return to Dayton,” he said. But it was the thought of what he could not tell her that made his voice serious.

“It's too bad!” said Marion. She looked so sympathetic that Tommy's self-pity was at once aroused.

“Yes, it is,” he said, and looked at her.

She looked away. Rivington was trying to catch the headwaiter's eye. Tommy was silent. Marion was forced to speak.

“Are you going to write this time?” Her eyebrows were raised, calmly questioning. The calmness brought to her a sense of both age and safety.

“How often can you stand it?” asked Tommy, anxiously. He wished to write every day.

“How often will you feel like it?” she asked, it was plain to see, for information only, that she might tell him exactly.

“If I wrote as often as I felt like it I'd write—” He stopped.

“That's what you say now.” Then she smiled, to forgive his silence in advance.

“Marion, I can't tell you how grateful I am to you—er—your father. He's made me go back a winner. It means everything to me.”

“I'm so glad, Tommy. Isn't it fine?”

“Yes. Only I wish I didn't have to go back at all.”

She forgot that she had told him the night before that he was the luckiest boy in the world to have a chance to do such splendid work as Mr. Thompson had mapped out for him. She asked, anxiously:

“Do you have to, Tommy?”

“Yes,” he answered, gloomily.

“I mean to-day?”

She looked at him. It thrilled him so that he instantly reacted to a sense of duty.

“Yes,” he said, grimly; “I must. I—” He caught himself.

“You what?”

“I'll tell you some day.” He spoke almost threateningly.

“Why can't you—” she began, irrepressibly.

He shook his head so firmly and withal miserably that she looked away and said:

“Don't forget to write.” She turned to him and smiled. She knew this boy would remain a boy for years. He divined her suspicion. In fact, he did so quite easily. It made him say:

“I don't think you really know me, Marion.” He forgot himself and looked at her challengingly.

She took up his challenge. How could she help it? She retorted, “As well as you know me!”

“I wonder if that can be so?” he mused. He looked into her eyes intently to see if peradventure the truth was there.

“Do you think people can read each other's thoughts?” she asked, a trifle anxiously.

“Sometimes I do—almost,” said Tommy, in a low voice.

“Tea and English muffins toasted,” said Riverington to the waiter. To Tommy he remarked: “Since I began to associate with wage-earners I find tea helpful. Also sinkers. The days of beer and pretzels—”

“There isn't a souse in the shop,” interrupted Tommy, with great dignity. “It was one of the things that Thompson did, and the men never knew it until it was done.” And since he sadly realized that his tÊte-À-tÊte with Marion was over, he began to tell them about his job at the shop, to which he was Door Opener. Marion listened for the second time with the same degree and quality of interest with which she would have listened to an African hunting story or a narrative of incredible hardship in the Arctic. And so did Rivington. And then Tommy told them about Bill's invention and hinted at his own hopes. Not being fully satisfied with the hints, he proceeded elaborately to make plain to them what the first successful kerosene carburetor would do for the automobile industry and what it ought to mean to the owners of the patent. And Marion's eyes thereat grew gloriously bright with excitement.

“Won't it be fine when your friend finishes it?” she said.

“Yes, it will,” said Tommy, looking steadily into her eyes.

“No, it would make a philanthropist of Tommy,” said Rivington, shaking his head, “and then his friends would lose him. Leave him as he is—a poor thing, but our own.”

Youthful vaudeville, thought Tommy, but not altogether displeasing. And later, when he said good-by to Marion, he was overwhelmed by the infinitude of the things he had wished to tell her and had not.

“Be sure to write,” she said.

“Yes,” interjected Rivington, “we expect daily reports of profits. No more loafing on the job. Your stockholders have rights which even you are bound to respect, my piratical friend. But I think you are a ninny just the same.”

“I've got to go back to-night,” said Tommy, craving sympathy.

“Yes, the plant might burn down or the horny-handed might get to cutting up. Ah, I see! You are docked the full twenty cents a day during your absence.”

But Tommy was busy manoeuvering so that he might say to Marion desperately the least of the million things he wished to say. He told her in a low voice:

“You are the most wonderful girl in the world.”

She shook her head and smiled.

“Yes!” he insisted, with a frown.

“I'm glad you think so,” she said, seriously.

“Are you?”

“Yes,” she said. Then she nodded twice.

“Good-by!” He shook hands, unaware that he was pressing hers too tightly for comfort.

“Good-by and—good luck!” she said, earnestly.

“That means getting back to New York,” said Rivington. “Why don't you try for the selling agency here, you idiot?”

“No,” said Tommy, frowning as he thought of the new reason, “it means my making good in Dayton.”

And from Sherry's he went straight to the station and bought his railroad ticket for Dayton. He would leave that same night.

From the ticket-office he went home to pack. His father was in the library reading his newspaper. The little parlor on the first floor was a much more comfortable room, but Mr. Leigh religiously did all his reading in the library by the table whereon were the family Bible, the ivory paper-cutter, and the fading photograph of his wife in its silver frame.

The old man nodded gravely as Tommy entered. “Were you more successful to-day, Thomas?” he asked, calmly.

“Yes, dad. Colonel Willetts took the entire block. He was very nice about it. I—suppose I have to thank you for it.”

“You don't have to thank me; thank your friend, Mr. Thompson. It is a good business proposition.” Mr. Leigh nodded, as if his own statement needed his confirmation. At least that is the way it impressed Tommy.

“I'm going back to-night, father, and—”

“So soon?” interrupted Mr. Leigh, quickly. The look of alarm that came into his eyes vanished before Tommy could see it.

“Yes, sir. By the way, I have Colonel Willetts's check. He told me I might get it certified at the bank, but I—I didn't.” Tommy distinctly remembered why he had not entered the bank. But all he said was, “It was after banking hours.”

“If you wish I can have it done and mail it to you.”

“I'd like to take it back with me,” said Tommy; “but I suppose I can't.”

“It isn't necessary to have it certified. The bank will surely pay it. You would like to take it with you and give it to Thompson yourself?” The old man's hands, unseen by Tommy, clenched tightly.

“Of course I would,” laughed Tommy, who naturally had dramatized his own triumphant return to Dayton.

“There is no reason why you shouldn't, Thomas,” said Mr. Leigh. Then after a pause, “Particularly if you must return at once.”

“Yes, I must,” said Tommy. By rights he ought to stay in New York and live with his father, whose only son he was, the father with whom he had lived so little since his school days. Then he assured himself that Marion had nothing to do with his sense of filial duty.

For a moment Mr. Leigh looked as if he were about to speak, but he merely shook his head and resumed his newspaper. Tommy went to his room to pack his suit-case. They had very little to say at dinner. When the time came for parting, Mr. Leigh's face took on the same look of grim determination that Tommy remembered so distressingly.

“My son,” said Mr. Leigh, in the dispirited monotone that also recalled to Tommy the first time he had heard it, “I do not think you—you are called upon to suffer unnecessary discomforts. Your—your weekly remittances to me are doubtless depriving you of—”

“They are my chief pleasure, dad,” Tommy interrupted, very kindly. “I send only what I can afford. I am very comfortable. I never felt more fit. And I—Well, father, you might as well understand that I've simply got to pay back the money you—you spent for my education.”

“There is no call upon you to do that. It was my duty. Your education was to me the most important—”

“Yes, yes, I understand, dad. But don't you understand how I feel about it?” Tommy spoke feverishly. He hated to talk about it, for it sharpened the secret's prod unbearably. And he hated himself for his cowardice in not talking about it in plain words.

“I have credited you with what you've sent,” said Mr. Leigh, so eagerly, so apologetically, and withal so proudly, that Tommy's heart was softened. “See?” And the old man took from the table drawer the little book bound in black morocco and showed Tommy the items on the credit side.

“Not as much as I'd like,” said Tommy, bravely trying to speak pleasantly.

“But I don't want you to stint yourself. It isn't necessary.” Seeing Tommy's look of protest, he went on, hurriedly: “I can bear my burden alone. You are in no way to blame.”

“Father, all I want to do is to pay back what I owe—”

“You owe nothing!”

“I think I do. It has made me work—”

“I don't want that. You must find pleasure in the work itself, not in paying my—er—debts, Thomas.”

“Your debts are my debts,” said Tommy, firmly. “And I do love the work. I want to do it. If I—even if I didn't feel I owed a penny, I'd still want to work in Dayton under Thompson, who will surely make me into a man.”

“I think you are that already, Thomas.” Mr. Leigh's voice quavered so that Tommy took a step toward him. “If you continue as you have begun”—Mr. Leigh's voice was now steady, almost cold—“I shall be quite satisfied, Thomas.”

“I'll do my best, father,” said Tommy, fully as firmly. “I'll write you regularly and keep you informed of my progress. My work is of a peculiar character, and I can't always be sure I'm making good. As a matter of fact,” he added, in a burst of frankness, “I'm merely getting paid for being one of Thompson's Experiments, as they call us at the works.”

“He is an unusual man. If his experiments should prove successful—” The old man paused to look sternly at his only son.

“He says they always do,” smiled Tommy, reassuringly.

“I pray so, my son,” said Mr. Leigh, quietly.

“Th' aut'mobile is out there,” announced Maggie.

“Good-by, dad!” said Tommy, rising hastily.

Mr. Leigh also rose. He was frowning. His lips were pressed together tightly. He held out his hand. It was very cold. Tommy shook it warmly.

“Good-by, my son,” said Mr. Leigh, sternly.