le to the death. It was not outraged honour, love, or justice that
blinded and deafened Larry; it was simply the brutish resentment of
the savage who, bound and gagged, watches a strong foe take all that
he had believed was his by right of conquest. At that moment he hated
Mary-Clare as he hated Northrup.

"You damned scoundrel!" he gasped. "And if I do what you suggest, what
then?" He meant to force Northrup as far as he dared.

A look that Rivers was never to forget spread over Northrup's face; it
was the look of one who had lived through experiences he knew he could
not make clear. The impossibility of making Rivers comprehend him
presently overcame Northrup. He spread his hands wide and said
hopelessly:

"Nothing!"

"Like hell, nothing!" Larry was desperate and brutal. Under all his
bravado rang the note of defeat; terror, and a barren hope of escape
that he loathed while he clung to it. "I don't know what Maclin's game
is--I've played fair. Whatever you've got on him can't touch me, when
the truth's out." Rivers was breathing hard; the sweat stood on his
forehead. "But when it comes to selling your wife for hush money----"

"Stop that!" Northrup's face was livid. He wanted to throttle Rivers
but he could not shake off the feeling of pity for the man he had so
tragically in his grip.

There was a heavy pause. It seemed weighted with tangible things.
Hate; pity; distrust; helpless truth. They became alive and
fluttering. Then truth alone was supreme.

"I told you, Rivers, that I knew you couldn't believe me--you
cannot. Partly this is due to life, as we men know it; partly to
your interpretation of it, but at least I owe it to you and myself to
speak the truth and let truth take care of itself. By the code that
is current in the world, I might claim all that you believe I am
after, for I think your wife might learn to love me--I know I love
her. If I set her free from you, permit her to see you as you are, in
her shock and relief she might turn to me and I might take her and,
God helping me, make a safe place for her; give her what her
hungry soul craves, and still feel myself a good sort. That would
be the common story--the thing that might once have happened. But,
Rivers, you don't know me and you don't know--your wife. I've only
caught the glimmer of her, but that has caused me to grow--humble.
She's got to be free, because that is justice, and you and I must
give it to her. When you free her--it's up to