hand
and staring into space. Behind her she heard Dennison's spoon clatter in
the cup as he stirred the coffee.

Wild horses! She felt as though she were being pulled two ways by wild
horses! For she was about to demand of Anthony Cleigh the promised
reparation. And which of two things should she demand? All this time,
since Cleigh had uttered the promise, she had had but one thought--to
bring father and son together, to do away with this foolish estrangement.
For there did not seem to be on earth any crime that merited such a
condition. If he humanly could--he had modified the promise with that.
What was more human than to forgive--a father to forgive a son?

And now Cunningham had to wedge in compellingly! She could hesitate
between Denny and Cunningham! The rank disloyalty of it shocked her. To
give Cunningham his eight months! Pity, urgent pity for the broken body
and tortured soul of the man--mothering pity! Denny was whole and sound,
mentally and physically; he would never know any real mental torture,
anything that compared with Cunningham's, which was enduring, now waxing,
now waning, but always sensible. To secure for him his eight months,
without let or hindrance from the full enmity of Cleigh; to give him his
boyhood dream, whether he found his pearls or not. Her throat became
stuffed with the presage of tears. The poor thing!

But Denny, parting from his father at Manila, the cleavage wider than
ever, beyond hope! Oh, she could not tolerate the thought of that! These
two, so full of strong and bitter pride--they would never meet again if
they separated now. Perhaps fate had assigned the role of peacemaker to
her, and she had this weapon in her hand to enforce it or bring it
about--the father's solemn promise to grant whatever she might ask. And
she could dodder between Denny and Cunningham!

To demand both conditions would probably appeal to Cleigh as not humanly
possible. One or the other, but not the two together.

An interval of several minutes of which she had no clear recollection, and
then she was conscious that she was reclining in her chair on deck,
staring at the stars which appeared jerkily and queerly shaped--through
tears. She hadn't had the courage to make a decision. As if it became any
easier to solve by putting it over until to-morrow!

Chance--the Blind Madonna of the Pagan--was preparing to solve the riddle
for her--with a thunderbolt!

The mental struggle had exhausted Jane somewhat