ould
mean selling out some of his stock, and in his position, with every
movement watched by enemies, he can not afford to do it. It might ruin
the plans of years. But I have some money of my own. My selling out
stock doesn't matter, you see. I have post-dated the check a week,
to give me time to realize on the securities in which my money is
invested."

Roland's whole nature rose in revolt at this sacrifice. If it had
been his host who had made this offer, he would have accepted it.
But chivalry forbade his taking this money from a woman. A glow of
self-sacrifice warmed him. After all, what was this money of his? He had
never had any fun out of it. He had had so little acquaintance with it
that for all practical purposes it might never have been his.

With a gesture which had once impressed him very favorably when
exhibited on the stage by the hero of the number two company of "The
Price of Honor," which had paid a six days' visit to Bury St. Edwards a
few months before, he tore the check into little pieces.

"I couldn't accept it, Mrs. Windlebird," he said. "I can't tell you how
deeply I appreciate your wonderful kindness, but I really couldn't. I
bought the shares with my eyes open. The whole thing is nobody's fault,
and I can't let you suffer for it. After the way you have treated me
here, it would be impossible. I can't take your money. It's noble and
generous of you in the extreme, but I can't accept it. I've still got a
little money left, and I've always been used to working for my living,
anyway, so--so it's all right."

"Mr. Bleke, I implore you."

Roland was hideously embarrassed. He looked right and left for a way of
escape. He could hardly take to his heels, and yet there seemed no other
way of ending the interview. Then, with a start of relief, he perceived
Johnson the groom coming toward him with the evening paper.

"Johnson said he was going into the town," said Roland apologetically,
"so I asked him to get me an evening paper. I wanted to see the lunch
scores."

If he had been looking at his hostess then, an action which he was
strenuously avoiding, he might have seen a curious spasm pass over her
face. Mrs. Windlebird turned very pale and sat down suddenly in the
chair which Roland had vacated at the beginning of their conversation.
She lay back in it with her eyes closed. She looked tired and defeated.

Roland took the paper mechanically. He wanted it as a diversion to
the conversation merely