to see my daughter? and Mr. Storms is not to see
her?"

"Do that, and I will answer for the balance!" cried Storri. "Do that,
and she will love me--she will be my wife!"

"And no more talk of--of forgeries?"

"My dear Mr. Harley!" exclaimed Storri, "I am a gentleman--a Russian
gentleman. I ask you, in candor, does a gentleman arrest his wife's
father on a charge of forgery? Come; let us have confidence in one
another. We are friends, are we not?--we, who are to be in closer
alliance when your daughter becomes my Countess wife. Bah! who shall
talk of forgeries then?"

The evening was still young--nine o'clock--when Mr. Harley found himself
again in the street, bending his slow step homeward. He was wholly
adrift now from any thought of those speculative ones at Chamberlin's.
What Storri had said engrossed him miserably. He entertained no doubt
but what Storri would carry into execution those threats of arrest,
should his desires concerning Dorothy meet with opposition. The fear of
his own disgrace appalled Mr. Harley. He did not lack for courage, but
his interview with Storri had buried him beneath a spell of terror.

It was peculiarly a condition to frighten Mr. Harley to the core. He was
proud in a coarse way of the fortune he had gathered. He had based
himself on his position as a business, not to say a legislative, force,
and used it to patronize, not always delicately, those among his fellows
who had not climbed so high. In exacting what was a money due, he had
ever proceeded with but little scruple. He had measured his right by
measuring his strength, and had not failed to take his pound of flesh.
In brief, Mr. Harley, possessing, like many another fat gentleman, those
numerous porcine traits of brutal selfishness and a lack of sentiment or
sympathy, had considered always his own interests, following them though
they took him roughshod over another's dearest hopes. For which good
reasons Mr. Harley had foes, and knew it; there would be no absence of
rejoicing over his downfall.

But what could Mr. Harley offer for defense? What, beyond mere
compliance with Storri's wishes, might avert those calamities that
seemed swinging in the air above him? He considered everything, and
devised nothing; he was like a man without eyes or as one shut in by
night. In his desperation, a flighty thought of taking Storri's life
appealed to him for one murderous moment. It was only for a moment, and
then he thrust it aside with