"That guy," said Ezra P. Hipps, "that guy is some stayer."

Hugo Van Diest, from the deeps of a big arm chair, omitted a kind of rumbling affirmative. He was smoking a porcelain pipe enamelled with roses and forget-me-nots. His fat, short fingered hands were spread across the waistcoat of Berlin wool, his chin was sunk and his bearing that of a man who is out of humour.

Gracefully disposed upon the hearthrug stood Oliver Laurence, an excellent advertisement for his tailor.

Ezra P. Hipps, hugging one knee, sat upon the centre table and he was looking at Auriole Craven with much the same expression as might be seen on the face of a slave buyer in an African market. He had passed her shoes, appreciated her stockings, nodded approval at her gown and millinery and was now observing with satisfaction that the gloves which she was peeling off revealed two arms of perfect proportion.

"That guy," he proceeded, "has got to be made to talk. Looks like.
He's made fools of us too long. Looks like," he threw a glance at
Laurence, "your durn psychology isn't worth a hill o' beans."

"We haven't given it a chance yet," said Laurence in defence of his method.

"Seventeen days," grunted Van Diest. "And no progress—nothing. This was not an ordinary man."

"Am I to see him today?" asked Auriole.

Hipps shook his head and the girl brightened perceptibly.

"Seems to please you."

"No, it doesn't. I'll go up if you want me to—only——"

"Get on with it."

"I can't help thinking it's a mistake. Can't help thinking that somehow that minute I spend with him every day strengthens rather than breaks him down."

"Guess you're right—it would me," Hipps agreed. There was a shade of gallantry in the tone.

"I take leave to doubt that," said Laurence. "I'm positively sure that if a man is feeling the pinch all day long and everybody he comes in contact with is definitely against him, a momentary glimpse of someone who is seemingly sympathetic is far more likely to weaken his resolve than strengthen it. It makes him relax and even though you relax only a trifle it's the very deuce to get a grip on yourself again. You can see it when chaps are training—that extra cigarette—the whiskey and soda that isn't allowed plays the devil with their constitution. I know when I was at——" He stopped for Auriole's large eyes were looking at him critically.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," she replied. "Nothing." Then to everyone's amazement burst out: "What a mean rotter you are, though."

"Here——" he began.

"I honestly believe you enjoy all this beastliness."

"Enjoy? My dear girl, do be sensible. Damn it, no one enjoys having to put on the screw. It's a case of necessity."

"Yes, yes, I suppose it is," she acquiesced hurriedly in an effort to regain her composure. "Only it seemed to me—but never mind."

Ezra P. Hipps crossed the room and put a hand on her arm.

"Come on, dear. What's the trouble?"

"I wouldn't mind," she returned, "if he weren't so—so desperately plucky."

"Hm!" said Van Diest. "I think it was a goot idea that you don't go to see this young man any more."

"That's nonsense," she replied hotly. "I'll see him. Besides he's used to my coming and if I didn't turn up he——"

"Disappointed," suggested Hipps.

"Exactly," said Laurence. "Perhaps it 'ud be a good idea to vary the programme for a day or two. Use the siren a bit more freely at night and cut down his water supply. If he isn't ready to talk in another forty-eight hours I'll be surprised."

"Had a word with him yet?" demanded Hipps.

"Not this morning."

"Then you and Van try a few sweet speeches."

The Dutchman rose heavily from his chair and nodded.

"It was a bad business all this," he said. "You come with us—no?"

"I'll be right along in just a minute."

He tilted his head a fraction toward Auriole and laid a finger on his lips.

Van Diest and Laurence went out. He waited until he heard their footsteps mounting the stairs before he spoke again. Auriole was looking through the window at the trees margining the little estate. She presented a charming silhouette against the light.

"Say, you look very womanly in that fawn outfit," said Hipps. "Where did you get it built?"

She turned with a smile that was a shade cynical.

"I'm glad you like it, Mr. Hipps."

"I do—fine."

"I'll wear it again."

"You've passed down the wardrobe hooks pretty prodigal these last few days. What is it—a dress parade?"

"One changes," she replied.

"That's sure what I'm frightened of."

"If you'd rather I appeared in a blouse and skirt——"; but he interrupted the sentence with an uplifted hand.

"I've a fancy we'll cut cross talking," he said, "and come to grips."

"About what?"

"This young fellow Barraclough has cut ice with you?"

"I thought you knew my feelings about him."

"To borrow from your vocabulary—'one changes,'" he replied.

"I haven't changed."

"Glad to hear it."

"I admire his pluck."

"It's a dangerous quality—admiration. Sure the old 'pash' hasn't looked up a bit?"

"Quite sure."

"Still it 'curred to me you were shaken some at the treatment we're serving out to him."

"That's not surprising. I merely wanted to get my own back, not—not——" She left the sentence unfinished.

Ezra P. Hipps took a cigar from his waistcoat pocket and chewed it reflectively, his eyes never leaving the girl's face.

"Women are queer ships," he said, "and never too even on the keel. You've an important hand to play and kind of to keep your mind from revoking here's a proposition to think over."

"Revoking?"

"That's the word. You're in this deal on a jealousy outfit and we're not after any renunciation, splendid sacrifice and that gear. We want you dead hard and seemed to me to get that I might do well to tie you up a bit closer to the cause."

"What do you suggest?"

"You're an ambitious woman."

"I suppose so."

"I suggest this child." And he tapped his chest with the chewed butt of the cigar.

"I don't see——"

"This child thrown in as a sweetener."

For a moment she flushed, then the colour died away and was replaced by a smile distinctly crooked at the corners.

"Are you making a proposal of marriage?" she asked.

"I sure am."

"Oh!"

He stretched his legs and rattled the coins in his pockets.

"I've a hell of a lot of money and damn! I've never asked a woman this question up to yet."

"Have you not?"

"Mention that fact 'cos I know they fall for molasses."

"You're very wise about women, Mr. Hipps."

But the irony was wasted.

"I read a bit of heart stuff in the trains sometimes," he said.

Auriole began to draw on her gloves.

"Isn't this rather a queer place to settle one's future?" she said.

"Donno—is it? Struck me it 'ud keep you from side-stepping having me on the horizon."

"I see. And do you always mix love making with business?"

"Sure. Marriage is a business and bank books talk sweeter than the long haired boys."

She flashed a glance up at him and there was a definite appeal in her eyes.

"Are you in love with me?"

The question seemed slightly to take him off balance.

"Damn! I think you're fine," he said.

"That is—splendid," she replied and turned her head.

"Feeling good about it?"

"Who wouldn't be?"

"Thought you took it quiet."

"I'm sorry."

"Maybe you had some hopes along this street?"

"I guessed there was something doing," she answered in an echo of his tone.

"It's all fixed then."

"I suppose so."

"Say I don't want you to think I'm only doing this out of expediency."

"You're not?"

"Not altogether."

"Better and better," said Auriole.

"I must scrape half an hour for lunch one of these days and we'll talk over settlements."

"That will be—jolly."

"I'll get right upstairs now."

"Goodbye."

He made no effort to take her hand or to kiss her and she offered no encouragement. At the room door he turned.

"Paris for the honeymoon?" he asked.

"Wherever you like."

He looked at her critically and she met his eyes without flinching.

"And you feel kind of strong—soft spots eradicated?"

"Naturally."

"I'm a hell of a tonic," said Ezra P. Hipps and closed the door behind him.

Auriole stood where he had left her. Presently she raised her hands and they were clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white as ivory.

"How utterly, utterly awful," she said to herself. "How unspeakable."

She picked up her bag and the other odds and ends a woman will carry and passed out of the house with flaming cheeks.

The chauffeur of the little two seater car that stood by the gates asked where he should drive.

"I don't care," she replied. "Anywhere you like. Get on a hill—some place where I can breathe."

The little Wolseley Ten wound through the green lanes and presently mounted a pine fringed slope. Away to the west hung the smoke of London with the pleasant countryside in between.

Auriole touched the chauffeur on the arm and he stopped. Alighting from the car she scrambled over uneven ground and presently threw herself down under the shade of a tree. Somewhere overhead a lark was singing and the air vibrated to the drone of summer insects. The day was blue, peaceful, sweet. A thin breeze rustled the foliage, and golden sun spots dappled the brown carpet of pine needles upon which she lay. A single cloud travelled in the sky and its shadow fell across the house and grounds in which Richard Frencham Altar was imprisoned. Auriole clenched her hands tightly and bit her lip. Somewhere behind those shuttered windows on the second floor the inquisition was going forward. Three men to one. The relentless interrogation. The same question repeated in a hundred ways and the same unshakable refusal to give an answer. It was fitting indeed that nature should cast a shadow over such doings.

"And I'm part of it," said Auriole.

Her thoughts flew back to her first meeting with Barraclough during the war. She was nursing then at a hospital in Eastbourne. He had had a bullet through the foot and was sent to the sea to recuperate. Strange how instantly they had liked each other. His good nature, pluck, generosity, were splendid assets in a friendship which went floundering loveward after the fashion of those crazy days. There was the fortnight they spent together in Town—perfectly respectable if a little unorthodox. He had money to burn and she helped him burn it. He had never asked more of her than companionship. Of course they kissed each other—everyone did during the war—that was understood; and he bought her presents too—ripping presents—and took her everywhere—theatres, undreamed-of restaurants, dances. A glorious time they had. He had denied her nothing except the offer of his name. After all there was no particular reason why he should have asked her to marry him—theirs was a mere partnership of gaiety added to which she knew well enough that it would not have been practicable. They were of a different mould. His blood was of the Counties and hers—Lord knows where she came from—"the people" is the best covering phrase to employ. She had been a mannequin in a Bond Street shop before the war. But was it fair—was it just to engender a love of luxury—to introduce her to all that her nature—vulgarised by unfamiliarity—coveted most! If he had proposed likely enough she would have been generous and refused him. But he didn't propose—he took it for granted that they were no more to each other than the moment dictated. There was a kind of long headed caution in his diffidence with regard to the future. He was exigent too in his demands and would not tolerate her being pleasant to anyone else. It was her nature to be pleasant to all men and restraints were odious and insulting. That was how the row came about. It took place on the night before his return to Prance. It was her fault no doubt because really he had been a ripping friend and loyal and trustworthy but the little climber felt that for once she had failed to climb. She was left, so to speak, in mid air, inoculated with the germs of all manner of new ambitions no longer realisable. Wherefore she forgot her affection for him and forgot all the lessons of politeness so studiously acquired in the years of climbing and let him have her opinions hot and strong as a simple uncultivated child of the people. The expression on Anthony Barraclough's face read plainly enough relief at his escape. He packed his valise and departed wondering greatly at the intricacy and unreasonableness of women. It did not occur to him that he was greatly to blame for having given her such a good time. Such a consideration was as remote as the thought of congratulating himself on his generosity. He was only awfully sorry she should have turned out as she did and rather perplexed at the apparent want of reason. And Auriole with the disposition to like him better than any man of her acquaintance suffered an entire reversal of feeling and went headlong to the other extreme in a spirit of unbecoming revengefulness.

And in the valley below, under the shadow of a cloud, this man was being tortured.

"I never meant that," Auriole cried. "I never meant that—did I—did I? I just wanted to pay him back. I just wanted——" She bit her lower lip and choked. "What a fool I am," she gasped. "Haven't I won a millionaire out of it? What's it matter if he does suffer a bit—he wouldn't be the only one. A millionaire," she repeated, "a millionaire—the wife of a railroad king. That's worth something surely."

A couple of unruly tears trickled out of her eyes and fell on her lap. It is really too absurd that even the thought of a million pounds cannot prevent a girl from crying.