your sweet, young brother."

Her eyes flashed. "My letter did not drive you away. It couldn't have.
You went because you did not love me. It was that and my money, not the
letter, not the letter."

Somehow she had a curious feeling that the very letter which contained
her bitter and hateful reproaches might save her yet. The fact that he
had not opened it--well, she must see Kitty again. Her husband was in a
dark mood. She must wait. She knew that her fortunate moment had passed
when the rogue Burlingame appeared. She must wait for another.

"Shall I go now? You want to see that man outside. Shall I go, Shiel?"
She was very pale, very quiet, steady and gentle.

"I must hear what that fellow has to say. It is business--important," he
replied. "It may mean anything--everything, or nothing."

As she left the room he had an impulse to call her back, but he
conquered it.

CHAPTER XVI. "'TWAS FOR YOUR PLEASURE YOU CAME HERE, YOU SHALL GO BACK FOR MINE"

For a moment Crozier stood looking at the closed doorway through which
Mona had gone, with a look of repentant affection in his eyes; but as
the thought of his own helpless insolvency and broken hopes flashed
across his mind, a look of dark and harassed reflection shadowed
his face. He turned to the front doorway with a savage gesture. The
mutilated dignity of his manhood, the broken pride of a lifetime, the
bitterness in his heart need not be held in check in dealing with the
man who waited to give him a last thrust of enmity.

He left the house. Burlingame was seated on the stump of a tree which
had been made into a seat. "Come to my room if you have business with
me," Crozier said sharply.

As they went, Crozier swung aside from the front door towards the corner
of the house.

"The back way?" asked Burlingame with a sneer.

"The old familiar way to you," was the smarting reply. "In any case, you
are not welcome in Mrs. Tynan's part of the house. My room is my own,
however, and I should prefer you within four walls while doing business
with you."

Burlingame's face changed colour slightly, for the tone of Crozier's
voice, the grimness of his manner, suggested an abnormal condition.
Burlingame was not a brave man physically. He had never lived the
outdoor life, though he had lived so much among outdoor people. He was
that rare thing in a new land, a decadent, a connoisseur in vice,
a lover of opiates and of liquor. He was young enough yet not to be
incap