"It’ll be all right," she whispered. "It’ll all come right, Rupert. I—I love you, dear, I’ll help you. It’ll all come right." The muscles of his face twitched convulsively. "Leave me," he whispered. "For pity’s sake leave me for a little while." Drawing down the blind, she crept out of the room and shut the door behind her. She heard someone coming up the stairs—the landlady bringing tea. Stooping down she commenced to pick up the papers scattered on the floor. Among them she found the cheque Rupert had received that morning from his father, the cheque drawn by Reginald Crichton. She looked at it curiously, a sudden instinct telling her how much that little sum meant to the old father who had sent it. Five pounds! Scarcely the value of the hat she wore. Folding it up she slipped it into her gloved hand, then sat down at the writing-table waiting until the landlady left the room. She had a few pounds in her purse which she had drawn over Paulus before the objection was made. A few pounds in the Post Office Savings-bank. Between them they might collect twenty or thirty pounds: and Rupert confessed to owing a hundred or two. That might mean five hundred—the price of his father’s honour and happiness, his little sister, the house, everything. And she loved Rupert Dale. Now that ruin faced him she knew how much she loved him. She would give her life to save him. She poured herself out a cup of tea and drank it. The little sitting-room felt hot and stuffy, her brain felt numb, she wanted air. She crept downstairs and commenced to walk to and fro up and down the pavement trying to think what she would do. Twelve pounds in her purse and a cheque for five pounds in her gloved hand. How lightly Rupert had thrown aside that cheque a few hours ago. Probably he did not know what he had done with it; would think he had lost it. Scarcely thinking what she was doing she took it out and looked at it closely. And she remembered Reginald Crichton’s name. She had heard men at the theatre speak of him in connection with mining investments. The clock struck the hour—six—and she made her way back to the lodging-house, and very quietly opened the door of the sitting-room. Then she stopped short, frozen with terror. Rupert was standing at the writing-table. The blinds were drawn down. In his hand he held a revolver. She saw him slowly turn it until the muzzle was pointing at his breast. CHAPTER II. FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS. "Rupert!" Ruby’s voice scarcely rose above a whisper. Slowly Rupert turned the revolver from his breast. Very slowly his arm dropped until it hung limply by his side. His grip relaxed and the revolver fell to the floor. Ruby crossed to his side, and, stooping down, picked it up.