or was closed. Then he stood up with his back to the fireplace and
pointed to a chair.

"You can sit, if you like," he invited. "Drink or smoke if you want to.
You're welcome."

"Thank you," Philip replied. "I'd rather stand."

"You don't want even to take a chair in my house, I suppose,"
Mr. Sylvanus Power went on mockingly, "or drink my whisky or
smoke my cigars, eh?"

"From the little I have seen of you," Philip confessed, "my inclinations
are certainly against accepting any hospitality at your hands."

"That's a play-writing trick, I suppose," Sylvanus Power sneered,
"stringing out your sentences as pat as butter. It's not my way. There's
the truth always at the back of my head, and the words ready to fit it,
but they come as they please."

"I seem to have noticed that," Philip observed.

"What sort of a man are you, anyway?" the other demanded, his heavy
eyebrows suddenly lowering, his wonderful, keen eyes riveted upon Philip.
"Can I buy you, I wonder, or threaten you?"

"That rather depends upon what it is you want from me?"

"I want you to leave this country and never set foot in it again. That's
what I want of you. I want you to get back to your London slums and
write your stuff there and have it played in your own poky little
theatres. I want you out of New York, and I want you out quick."

"Then I am afraid," Philip regretted, "that we are wasting time. I
haven't the least intention of leaving New York."

"Well, we'll go through the rigmarole," Power continued gruffly. "We've
got to understand one another. There's my cheque book in that safe. A
million dollars if you leave this country--alone--within twenty-four
hours, and stay away for the rest of your life."

Philip raised his eyebrows. He was lounging slightly against the desk.

"I should have no use for a million dollars, Mr. Power," he said. "If I
had, I should not take it from you, and further, the conditions you
suggest are absurd."

"Bribery no good, eh?" Mr. Power observed. "What about threats? There was
a man once who wrote a letter to a certain woman, which I found. I killed
him a few days afterwards. There was a sort of a scuffle, but it was
murder, right enough. I am nearer the door than you are, and I should say
about three times as strong. How would a fight suit you?"

Ware's hand was in his overcoat pocket.

"Not particularly," he answered. "Besides, it wouldn't be fair. You see,
I am armed, and you're not."

As though for