ot write what I must say," said Norman. It had never been
difficult for him, however provoked, to keep his temper--outwardly.
Tetlow's insults were to him no more than the barkings of a watch dog,
and one not at all dangerous, but only amusing. "I must see her. If you
are her friend, and not merely a jealous, disappointed lover, you'll
advise her to see me."

"You shall not see her, if I can help it," cried his former friend. "And
if you persist in annoying her----"

"Don't make futile threats, Tetlow," Norman interrupted. "You've done me
all the mischief you can do. I see you hate me for the injuries you've
done me. That's the way it always is. But I don't hate you. It was at my
suggestion that the Lockyer firm is trying to get you back as a
partner." Then, as Tetlow colored--"Oh, I see you're accepting their
offer."

"If I had thought----"

"Nonsense. You're not a fool. How does it matter whose the hand, if only
it's a helping hand? And you may be sure they'd never have made you the
offer if they didn't need you badly. All the credit I claim is having
the intelligence to enlighten their stupidity with the right
suggestion."

In spite of himself Tetlow was falling under the spell of Norman's
personality, of the old and deep admiration the lesser man had for the
greater.

"Norman," he said, "how can you be such a combination of bigness and
petty deviltry? You are a monster of self-indulgence. It's a God's mercy
there aren't more men with your selfishness and your desires."

Norman laughed sardonically. "The difference between me and most men,"
said he, "isn't in selfishness or in desires, but in courage. Courage,
Billy--there's what most of you lack. And even in courage I'm not alone.
My sort fill most of the high places."

Tetlow looked dismal confession of a fear that Norman was right.

"Yes," pursued Norman, "in this country there are enough wolves to
attend to pretty nearly all the sheep--though it's amazing how much
mutton there is." With an abrupt shift from raillery, "You'll help me
with her, Billy?"

"Why don't you let her alone, Fred?" pleaded Tetlow. "It isn't worthy of
you--a big man like you. Let her alone, Fred!--the poor child, trying to
earn her own living in an honest way."

"Let her alone? Tetlow, I shall never let her alone--as long as she and
I are both alive."

The fat man, with his premature wrinkles and his solemn air of law books
that look venerable though fresh from the press, too