e Crawfords reap
the rewards and assume the honors which belong--elsewhere!"

Jocelyn had read stories of heroes. Never before had she known what it
was to find herself in the actual bodily presence of one of these
creatures. And small wonder she thrilled again, not alone because of
the fact that this great-hearted gentleman had sacrificed himself upon
the altar of righteousness, but, further, that in the reasons for such
self-immolation had entered thoughts of her. A real, perfectly
delightful romance was being enacted, and _she_ was its heroine!

"You are very good," she murmured, quite as the heroine should. "And
papa will appreciate it when I tell him. And," shyly, "if you care to
know it, I think that your generous kindness is the finest thing I
have ever known."

It was the psychological time for a love avowal. But Mr. Hapgood had
not played out his other role. He rose hastily, looking at his watch.

"I stopped in for just a moment," he said, quickly. "I am on my way to
the post-office. I expect some important mail to-night. By the way,"
stopping with a glove half drawn on, "if your father cares to accept a
position again soon I think that I know of one which would suit him.
Mr. Swinnerton wants a competent engineer to aid him in a bit of work.
I took the liberty to mention Mr. Truxton to him. He was delighted at
the bare mention of your father's name. But"--and again the old
shrewd look crept into his eyes--"maybe Mr. Truxton does not care to
work against the reclamation? Maybe he is willing to see the Crawfords
and that Conniston fellow succeed in their scheme?"

"I am going right in to talk with papa," she told him, quickly. "I am
going to tell him the real truth. And I think, Mr. Hapgood, that you
can tell Mr. Swinnerton that papa will come out to see him to-morrow or
the next day."

Mr. Hapgood took the hand which she held out to him, bestowed upon her
a look which spoke of warm admiration tinged with half-melancholy
longing, sighed, relinquished her hand with a gentle pressure, and ran
down the steps.

"Good night, Jocelyn," he called, softly, from the little gate.

"Good night, Roger," she whispered.

CHAPTER XX

A certain old football phrase rang day and night in Conniston's brain,
"_It is anybody's game!_" Anybody's game! For there was a chance for
success in the Great Work, and he saw that chance clearly, and fought
hard for it. If everything went smoothly now, if Mr. Crawford gave hi