en the man awoke from his sleep-walker's vacancy and realized
her presence. At the sight of her despairing eyes and inert figure
resting for support against the mahogany panels, his expression altered.
His eyes woke to life and, again moistening his lips, he forced the
ghost of a smile which at first succeeded only in being ghastly.

"So you know?" he questioned.

Mary Burton did not reply in words. She could not, but she nodded her
head and something between a groan and a sob came from her parted lips.
Then her voice returned and she murmured in heart-broken
self-accusation: "It was because of me."

He stood shaking himself as a dog shakes off water. His drooped
shoulders came back with an abrupt snap and his head threw itself up and
his chest out. With a swift stride he had reached her and folded her
into his embrace. For once the regal confidence had left her and the
courage was dead in her heart. She lay in his arms a dead weight, which,
but for his supporting strength, would have crumbled to a limp mass on
the floor. But as he held her, fresh bravery flooded his arteries and
his voice came clear and untainted of weakness:

"We still have each other," he told her passionately. "You once asked me
whether, if you were penniless, I should still want you. Today I am
penniless and owe millions--do you still want me?"

Her arms clung to him more closely and the eyes that gazed into his
revealed, as they had on that first night, all that was in her soul.
Once more she answered him with a question: "Look at me--do I want you?"

He swept her from her feet and carried her to a chair, where he put her
gently down, then he knelt by her side with her hands clasped
convulsively in his own. For a moment it is doubtful whether he realized
anything save her presence. His voice was the voice of the man who had
met her by the mountain road, of the man who had come to her in the
darkness at Haverly Lodge and claimed her without preamble.

"The mountains still stand--and there are cottages there where even a
very poor man may find shelter. I would rather have it, with you, than
to own Manhattan Island without you."

There was a knock at the door of the private office, and Edwardes,
rising from his knees, went to receive the message. He came back very
gravely.

"I have to face an unpleasant interview, dearest," he said. "One of
those bankers who were crushed as incidents to my ruin--who was guilty
only of standing in your broth