ke everything right now; but I'll do what I can
before--before--I mean," he stammered on, "I'll write. I'll write to the
people--there were only a few of them--to whom I actually used the words
I did. I'll ask them to correct the impression I have given. I know
they'll do it, when they know--"

He stopped helplessly. The lustre died out of his eyes, and his pallor
became sallowness.

"But I've said enough," he began again, making a tremendous effort to
regain his self-mastery. "You can have no doubt as to my meaning; and
you will be able to fill in anything I may have left unspoken. Now," he
added, sweeping the room with a look--"now--I'd better--go."

"No, by God! you infernal scoundrel," shouted Derek Pruyn, "you shall
not go."

All the suffering of months shot out in the red gleam of his eyes, while
the muscular tension of his neck was like that of an infuriated mastiff.
In three strides he was across the room, with clinched fist uplifted.
Bienville had barely time in which to fold his arms and stand with feet
together and head erect, awaiting the blow.

"Go on," he said, as Derek stood with hand poised above him. "Go on."

There was a second of breathless stillness. Then slowly the clinched
fingers began to relax and the open hand descended, softly, gently, on
Bienville's shoulder. Between the two men there passed a look of things
unspeakable, till, with bent head and drooping figure, Derek wheeled
away.

"I'll say good-by--now."

Bienville's voice was husky, but he bowed with dignity to each member of
the company in turn and to Marion Grimston last. "Raoul!" The name
arrested him as he was about to go. He looked at her inquiringly.
"Raoul," she said again, without rising from her place, "I promised that
if you ever did what you've done to-day I would be your wife."

"You did," he answered, "but I've already given you to understand that I
claim no such reward."

"It isn't you who would be claiming the reward; it's I. I've suffered
much. I've earned it."

"The very fact that you've suffered much would be my motive in not
allowing you to suffer more."

"Raoul, no man knows the sources of a woman's joy and pain. How can you
tell from what to save me?"

"There's one thing from which I _must_ save you: from uniting your
destiny with that of a man who has no future--from pouring the riches
of your heart into a bottomless pit, where they could do no one any
good. I thank you, Mademoiselle, with all my soul