fact, I sold out at ten and
three-eighths. Wait! Here's a pencil. Lydia, give me that pad on your
desk. Here you are, Quarrier. It's easy enough to figure out how much
you owe me."

And as Quarrier slowly began tracing figures on the pad, Mortimer
rambled on, growing more demonstrative and boisterous every moment.
"It's white of you, Quarrier--I'll say that! Legally, of course, you
could laugh at me; but I've always said your business conscience would
never let you stand for this sort of thing. 'You can talk and talk,'
I've told people, many a time, 'but you'll never convince me that Howard
Quarrier hasn't a heart.' No, by jinks! they couldn't make me believe
it. And here's my proof--here's my vindication! Lydia, would you mind
hunting up that cheque-book I left here before dinn--"

He had made a mistake. The girl flushed. He choked up, and cast a
startled glance at Quarrier. But Quarrier, if he heard, made no motion
of understanding. Perhaps it had not been necessary to convince him of
the conspiracy.

When he had finished his figures he reviewed them, tracing each total
with his pencil's point; then quietly handed the pad to Mortimer who
went over it, and nodded that it was correct.

Lydia rose. Quarrier said, without looking at her: "I have a blank
cheque with me. May I use one of these pens?"

So he had brought a cheque! Had he supposed that a cheque might be
necessary when Lydia called him up? Was he prepared to meet any demand
of hers, too, even before Mortimer appeared on the scene?

"As long as you have a cheque with you, Howard," said Lydia quietly,
"suppose you simply add to Mr. Mortimer's amount what you had intended
to offer me?"

He stared at her without answering.

"That little remembrance for old time's sake. Don't you recollect?"

"No," said Quarrier.

"Why, Howard! Didn't you promise me all sorts of things when I wanted
to go to your friend Mr. Siward, and explain that it was not his fault I
got into the Patroons Club? Don't you remember I felt dreadfully that he
was expelled--that I was simply wild to write to the governors and tell
them how I took Merkle's clothes and drove to the club and waited until
I saw a lot of men go in, and then crowded in with the push?"

Mortimer was staring at Quarrier out of his protruding eyes. The girl
leaned forward, deliberate, self-possessed, the red lips edged with
growing scorn.

"That was a dirty trick!" said Mortimer heavily. He took the pad, added