be delightful. But--you don't
understand, Jerry--it's one of the delights I must forego."

When Errington spoke with such a definite air of finality, his young
secretary knew from experience that he might as well drop the subject.
He could get nothing further out of Max, once the latter had adopted
that tone over any matter. So Jerry, being wise in his generation,
held his peace.

Suddenly Errington faced round and laid his hands on the boy's shoulder.

"Jerry," he said, and his voice shook with some deep emotion. "Thank
God--thank Him every day of your life--that you're free and
untrammelled. All the world's yours if you choose to take it. Some of
us are shackled--our arms tied behind our backs. And oh, my God! How
they ache to be free!"

The blue eyes were full of a keen anguish, the stern mouth wry with
pain. Never before had Jerry seen him thus with the mask off, and he
felt as though he were watching a soul's agony unveiled.

"Max . . . dear old chap . . ." he stammered. "Can't I help?"

With an obvious effort Errington regained his composure, but his face
was grey as he answered:--

"Neither you nor any one else, Jerry, boy. I must dree my weird, as
the Scotch say. And that's the hard part of it--to be your own judge
and jury. A man ought not to be compelled to play the double role of
victim and executioner."

"And must you? . . . No way out?"

"None. Unless"--with a hard laugh--"the executioner throws up the game
and--runs away, allowing the victim to escape. And that's
impossible! . . . Impossible!" he reiterated vehemently, as though
arguing against some inner voice.

"Let him rip," suggested Jerry. "Give the accused a chance!"

Errington laughed more naturally. He was rapidly regaining his usual
self-possession.

"Jerry, you're a good pal, but a bad adviser. Get thee behind me."

Steps sounded on the stairs outside. Adrienne and Mrs. Adams had come
back, and Errington turned composedly to greet them, the veil of
reticence, momentarily swept aside by the surge of a sudden emotion,
falling once more into its place.

CHAPTER XI

THE YEAR'S FRUIT

Spring had slipped into summer, summer had given place again to winter,
and once more April was come, with her soft breath blowing upon the
sticky green buds and bidding them open, whilst daffodils and tulips,
like slim sentinels, swayed above the brown earth, in a riot of tender
colour.

There is something very fresh and