"I'll tell you this," said Blake, voice cold, and ringing. "It was written for you by a man who knew you; and you'll listen." "No!" protested Schuyler. He started to rise from his chair. But Blake, catching him by the shoulders, thrust him back, holding him pinioned. "You fool," he remarked, bitterly. "You poor, pitiful, puling fool! 'Honor, and faith, and a sure intent'--a wife, a child, a reputation, a character. 'Stripped to his foolish hide,' the poem reads. But you're stripped to your naked, sodden skeleton. If I weren't so sorry for you, I could cut your throat. When I think of the little girl--calling you daddy--honoring you--loving you--and of what you've done for her! When I think of your wife--of the woman who went through the pains of childbirth for you--who held you sacred in that great, loving, glorious heart of hers--who gave, and gave, and gave asking only that there might be the more to give--You say that maybe I don't know what love is. Well, maybe I don't--and maybe I do. There are some things that a man may not tell his best friend--there are some things that a man may not even tell himself. But I'm different from you, thank God, and I love differently." He moved back. Schuyler remained seated. Leaden eyes had in them now a new light--the light of suffering refined. Blake commanded: "Stand up. Look me in the eye, as man to man--if you can." Swiftly Schuyler rose to his feet. The two men stood face to face, eye to eye. "Now," cried Blake, hope in his heart--hope ringing in his voice, "will you be a man, or a thing that earth, nor heaven, nor even hell has room for?" [Illustration] CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE. DEFEAT. Came from the door of the morning room a light, ringing, musical laugh. The woman stood there, white arms extended above her head, hands resting on door sides. Schuyler fell back a step. Blake turned. Again she laughed, lightly, ripplingly. And then: "What a splendid revivalist was lost to the world when your friend became a mere broker!" And to Blake: "Why once or twice I myself became almost enthusiastic. Really, sir, you are a most convincing speaker--though if you will pardon a well-meant criticism, your low tones are a bit harsh." There was in Blake's heart a great bitterness. When first he had come to see the man that had been his friend, there had been in his breast but little hope. Later, however, he had understood better; and there had awakened within him an idea that perhaps, after all, it was not too late-- and then had come confidence, and the desire to fight. And he had fought. He had almost won. But now, he knew that he had lost; for in Schuyler's eyes he saw dull, hopeless docility, and in The Woman's, conscious power and strength beyond measure. He turned. He looked at this woman who was his foe--his victor. Slowly he said: "There is supposed to be honor among thieves. Apparently there is none among libertines."