"Speak up!" snapped Armstrong. He moved slightly; a movement of swift restraint. It became suddenly evident that this calm manner of his was deceptive; his was the quiet of effort, of tension, of a sane mind controlling surging impulses. "Do you want me to make you speak, you cur?" Slosson broke. "No, no!" The wretched man threw out his hands in a miserable gesture of despair. "I--it was all false, Dorothy. It--that visit--Macgowan wanted me to do it all, to tell you those things--" He paused. His dead and lifeless voice rang upon the stillness of the room with inert tones. "He wanted you to think that--that Armstrong had robbed your father. He'd been working a long time to make you believe that. When you were in Evansville at Christmas, Williams said something that was meant to be overheard by you--" He lifted his glance to Dorothy. What he read in her eyes caused the words to falter on his lips, brought a slow, deep tide of color into his face. He came to his feet and went stumblingly out of the office; nor was his departure stayed. When the door had closed, Armstrong rose and went to Dorothy's side. "Lady!" he said softly. She raised her face to him. "Reese--can you forgive me?" A happy laugh shook him as his arm went about her shoulders. "Dear lady--forget everything but our gladness! Everything's won, but the best of all is that I've won you back. Nothing else matters now; Macgowan, all the rest of it!" She was silent a long moment, trembling against him, blinded with quick tears of joy. Then, suddenly, she moved. "Dear--is it true? That everything is won, and the fight over?" "I think so," he said gravely. "Yes." "I'm so glad! And I know what's in your heart, Reese, what your eyes are shining about! The sixteen thousand--" "Oh, plague take the sixteen thousand!" His laugh rang out clear and vibrant. "It's you, my dear, you! Just ourselves, set right again." A tremulous smile broke on her lips. "Yes--and I've been so jealous of those sixteen thousand! Now kiss me--and forget everything--" Their lips met. CHAPTER IX Wednesday night in New York--a warm, sweet night of April. The windows of Mrs. Fowler's apartment were open to the touch of melting spring that drifted in from Central Park, just across the street. Lawrence Macgowan glanced across the room, caught the eye of Mrs. Fowler, and a slight smile touched his lips. Undoubtedly his hostess quite comprehended the subtle depths of that smile, for her answering glance was whimsical and flitted lightly to Mrs. Findlater. For Henry C. Findlater was here, pursily important, and his wife--a meek, colorless woman who was distinctly not at her ease.