IV

"Now," said Dick Kenyon, in his easy, self-assured accents, "sit down

right there, sonny, and tell me what's on your mind."

He pressed Jerry into his most comfortable chair with hospitable force.

Jerry submitted, because he could not help himself, rather than from

choice. Patronage from Dick Kenyon was something of an offence to his

ever-ready pride.

As for Dick, he had not apparently the smallest suspicion of any latent

resentment of this nature in his visitor's mind. He brought out a box of

choice cigars, and set them at Jerry's elbow. They had just lunched

together at Kenyon's rooms; and it had been quite obvious to the latter

that Jerry had been preoccupied throughout the meal.

Having furnished his guest with everything he could think of to ensure

his comfort, he proceeded deliberately to provide for his own.

Jerry was not quite at his ease. He sat with the unlighted cigar between

his fingers, considering with bent brows. Kenyon looked at him at last

with a faint smile.

"If I didn't know it to be an impossibility," he said, "I should say you

were shying at something."

Jerry turned towards him with an air of resolution.

"Look here, Kenyon," he said, in his slightly superior tones, "I have

really come to talk to you about your engagement to my sister."

He paused, aware of a change in Kenyon's expression, but wholly unable

to discover of what it consisted.

"What about it?" said Kenyon.

He was on his feet, searching the mantelpiece for an ash-tray. His face

was turned from Jerry, but could he have seen it fully, it would have

told him nothing.

Jerry went on, with a strong effort to maintain his ease of manner:

"We've been thinking it over, and we have come to the conclusion that

perhaps, after all, it was a mistake. In short, my sister has thought

better of it; and, as she is naturally sensitive on the subject, I

undertook to tell you so, I don't suppose it will make any particular

difference to you. There are plenty of girls who would jump at the

chance of marrying your millions. But, of course, if you wish it, some

compensation could be made."

Jerry paused again. He had placed the matter on the most businesslike

footing that had occurred to him. Of course, the man must realise that

he was a rank outsider, and would understand that it was the best

method.

Kenyon heard him out in dead silence. He had found the ash-tray, but he

did not turn his head. After several dumb seconds, he walked across the

room to the window, and stood there. Finally he spoke.

"I don't suppose," he said, in his calm, expressionless drawl, "that you

have ever had a cowhiding in your life, have you?"

"What?" said Jerry.

He stared at Kenyon in frank amazement. Was the man mad?

"Never had a cowhiding in your life, eh?" repeated Kenyon, without

moving.

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Jerry.

Kenyon remained motionless.

"I mean," he said calmly, "that I've thrashed a man to a pulp before now

for a good deal less than you have just offered me. It's my special

treatment for curs. Suits 'em wonderfully. And suits me, too."

Jerry sprang to his feet in a whirl of wrath, but before he could utter

a word Kenyon suddenly turned.

"Go back to your sister," he said, in curt, stern tones, "and tell her

from me that I will discuss this matter with her alone. If she intends

to throw me over, she must come to me herself and tell me so. Go now!"

But Jerry stood halting between an open blaze of passion and equally

open discomfiture. He longed to hurl defiance in Kenyon's face, but some

hidden force restrained him. There was that about the man at that moment

which compelled submission. And so, at length, he turned without another

word, and walked straight from the room with as fine a dignity as he

could muster. By some remarkable means, Dick Kenyon had managed to get

the best of the encounter.

V

Not the next day, nor the next, did Violet Trelevan summon up courage to

face her outraged lover, and ask for her freedom. Jerry did not tell her

precisely what had passed, but she gathered from the information he

vouchsafed that Kenyon had not treated the matter peaceably. She

wondered a little how Jerry had approached it, and told herself with a

beating heart that she would have to take her own line of action.

Nevertheless, for a full week she did nothing, and at the end of that

week the flutter in the Winhalla Railway shares had subsided completely,

and all Jerry's high hopes were dead. From day to day he had tried to

console himself and her with the reflection that a speculation of that

sort was bound to fluctuate, but, in the end, when the shares went down

to zero, he was forced to own that he had been too sanguine. It had been

but the last flicker before extinction. The capitalist had evidently

thought better of risking his money on such a venture.

"And I was a gaping, weak-kneed idiot not to sell for what I could get!"

he told his sister. "But it's just our luck. I might have known nothing

decent could ever happen to us!"

It was on that evening, when the outlook was at its blackest, that

Violet wrote at last, without consulting Jerry, to the man in whose

hands lay her freedom.

It was a short epistle, and humbly worded, for she realised that this,

at least, was his due.

"I want you," she wrote, "to forgive me, if you can, for the wrong I

have done you, and to set me free. I accepted you upon impulse, I am

ashamed to say, for the sake of your money. But the shame would be even

greater if I did not tell you so. I do not know what view you will take,

but my own is that, in releasing me, you will not lose anything that is

worth having."

The answer to this appeal came the next day by hand:

"May I see you alone at your flat at five o'clock?"

She had not expected it, and she felt for an instant as if a master hand

had touched her, sending the blood tingling through her veins like fire.

She sent a reply in the affirmative; and then set herself to face the

longest day she had ever lived through.

She sat alone during the afternoon, striving desperately to nerve

herself for the ordeal. But strive as she might, the fact remained that

she was horribly, painfully frightened. There was something about this

man which it seemed futile to resist, something that dominated her,

something against which it hurt her to fight.

She heard his ring punctually upon the stroke of five, and she went

herself to answer it.

He greeted her with his usual serenity of manner.

"All alone?" he asked, as he followed her into the little drawing-room

in which he had proposed to her so short a time before.

She assented nervously.

"Jerry went into the city. He won't be back yet."

"That's kind of you," said Kenyon quietly.

She did not ask him to sit down. They faced each other on the hearthrug.

The strong glare of the electric light showed him that she was very

pale.

Abruptly he thrust out his hand to her.

"You must forgive me for bullying your brother the other day," he said.

"Really, he deserved it."

She glanced up quickly.

"Jerry doesn't understand," she said.

He kept his hand outstretched though she did not take it.

"I don't understand, either," he said.

"Do you really want to shake hands with me?" she murmured, her voice

very low.

"I want to hold your hand in mine, if I may," he answered simply. "I

think it will help to solve the difficulty. Thank you! Yes; I thought

you were trembling. Now, why, I wonder?"

She did not answer him. Her head was bent.

"Don't!" he said gently. "There is no cause. Didn't I tell you I would

shunt if you didn't want me?"

Still she was silent, her hand lying passive in his.

"Come!" he said. "I want to understand, don't you know. That note of

yours. You say in it that you accepted me for the sake of my money. Even

so. But I reckon that is more a reason for sticking to me than for

throwing me over."

He paused, but her head only drooped a little lower.

"Doesn't that reason still exist?" he asked her, point blank.

She shivered at the direct question, but she answered it.

"Yes; it does. And that's why I'm ashamed to go on."

"Why ashamed?" he asked. "How do you know my reason for wanting to marry

you is as good since I never told you what it was?"

She looked up then, suddenly and swiftly, and caught a curious glint in

the blue eyes that watched her.

"I do know," she said, speaking quickly, impulsively. "And that's why--I

can't bear--that you should despise me."

"Ah!" he said. "Do you really care what an outsider like myself thinks

of you?"

The colour flamed suddenly in her white face, but he went on in his

quiet drawl as if he had not seen it:

"If I thought it was for your happiness, believe me, I would set you

free. But, so far, you haven't given me any reason that could justify

such a step. Can't you think of one? Honestly, now?"

She shook her head. Her eyes were full of blinding tears.

"What is it, then?" urged Kenyon. And suddenly his voice was as soft as

a woman's. "Has the right man turned up unexpectedly, after all? Is it

for his sake?"

"Oh, don't!" she cried passionately. "Don't! You hurt me!"

And, turning sharply from him, she hid her face, and broke into

anguished weeping.

Kenyon stood quite still for perhaps ten seconds; then he moved close to

her, and put his arm round the slight, sobbing figure.

She did not start or attempt to resist him.

"There, there!" he whispered soothingly. "I knew there was a reason.

Don't cry, dear! It will be all right--all right. Never mind the beastly

money. There's going to be a big boom in the Winhalla Railway shares,

and you'll make your fortune over it. Yes; I know all about that. A

friend told me. There's a big capitalist pushing behind. They have gone

down this week, but they are going to rise like a spring tide next. And

then--you'll be free to marry the right man, eh, dear? I sha'n't stand

in your way. I'll even come and dance at the wedding, if you'll have

me."

She uttered a muffled laugh through her tears, and turned slightly

towards him within the encircling arm.

"I hope you will," she murmured. "Because--because--" She broke off, and

became silent.

Dick Kenyon's arm did not slacken.

"If you could make it convenient to finish that sentence of yours, I'd

be real grateful," he observed, at length.

She lifted her face from her hands, and looked him in the eyes. Her own

were shining.

"Because," she said unsteadily, "I couldn't marry the right man--if you

weren't there."

He looked straight back at her without a hint of emotion in his heavy

eyes.

"Quite sure of that?" he asked.

And she laughed again tremulously as she made reply.

"Quite sure, Dick," she said softly, "though I've only just found it

out."

* * * * *

Jerry, tearing in a little later, brimful of city news, noticed that his

sister's face was brighter than usual, but failed, in his excitement, to

perceive a visitor in the room, the visitor not troubling himself to

rise at his entrance.

"News, Vi!" he shouted. "Gorgeous news! The Winhalla Railway is turning

up trumps! The shares are simply flying up. I told Gardner I'd sell at

fifty, but he says they are worth holding on to, for they'll go above

that. He vows they're safe. And who do you think is the capitalist

that's pushing behind? Why, Kenyon!"

He broke off abruptly at this point as Kenyon himself arose leisurely

with a serene smile and outstretched hand.

"Exactly--Kenyon!" he said. "But if you think he's a rank bad speculator

like yourself, sonny, you're mistaken. I didn't make my money that way,

and I don't reckon to lose it that way either. But Gardner's right.

Those shares are safe. They aren't going down again ever any more."

He turned to the girl on his other side, and laid his free hand on her

shoulder.

"And I guess you'll forgive me for distressing you," he said, "when I

tell you why I did it."

"Well, why, Dick?" she questioned, her face turned to his.

"I just thought I'd like to know, dear," he drawled, "if there wasn't

something bigger than money to be got out of this deal. And--are you

listening, Jerry?--I found there was!"

* * * * *