"I needn't trouble you."

He walked swiftly to the door, unlocked it, and drew it invitingly wide;
but now that the way was clear Dalrymple hesitated. Again George
shrugged his shoulders and stepped to the hall. Dalrymple, abruptly
active, ran after him, grasping at his arm.

"Where you going?" he whispered.

"To Lambert's room."

"Not to-night," the other begged. "I don't admit you could make any real
trouble, but I want to spare Sylvia any possible unpleasantness. Well!
Don't you, too? You lost your temper. Maybe I did mine. Give us both a
chance to think it over. Now see here, Morton, I won't ask you another
favour, and I'll do nothing in the meantime. I couldn't very well. I
mean, status quo, and all that----"

"Lambert, to-morrow," George said, "is going away for more than a
month."

"But you could always get hold of him, at a pinch," Dalrymple urged.
"Heaven knows I'm not likely to talk to Sylvia about what you've said.
Let us both think it over until Lambert comes back."

George sighed, experiencing a glow of victory. The other's eagerness
confessed at last an accurate measure of the power of his ammunition;
and George didn't want to go to the Planters on such an errand as long
as any other means existed. The more Dalrymple thought, the more
thoroughly he must realize George had him. From the first George had
manoeuvred to avoid the necessity of shocking habits of thought and
action that were inborn in the Planters, so he gladly agreed.

"Meantime, you'll keep away from her?"

"Just as far as possible," Dalrymple answered. "You'll be able to see
that for yourself."

"Then," George said, "you arrange to get yourself out of the way as soon
as Lambert and Betty return. Meantime, if you go back on your word, I'll
get hold of Lambert."

Dalrymple leant against the wall, morosely angry, restless, discouraged.

"I'll admit you could make some unpleasantness all around," he said,
moistening his lips. "I wish I'd never touched your dirty money----"

George stepped into his room and closed the door.

VII

The awakening of the house to its most momentous day aroused George
early, hurried him from his bed, sent him downstairs in a depressed,
self-censorious mood, as if he and not Dalrymple had finished the
caraffe. That necessary battle behind a locked door continued to fill
his mind like the memory of a vivid and revolting nightmare. He fled
from the increasing turmoil of an exceptional agitation, but h