“Now, see here!” Mr. Solway interrupted. “You hold on to them, my boy. I told you it was a good thing.” “It would be,” said the other. “A very good thing, sir, if I could unload at five and an eighth—or even a bit less—when I bought at three and three-fourths.” “Now, see here!” said Mr. Solway. “I’ll tell you something—which you needn’t mention anywhere. I’m _buying_ at five and an eighth—up to six and a half. Buying, mind you, my boy!” This was almost more than Ross could bear. This was just the sort of talk he had thirsted for; this was what he had come to New York for; to buy stocks at three and three-fourths and sell at six and one-half, or more. There he sat, with his peaked cap pulled down over his lean, impassive face, listening with a sort of rage. If he could only ask Mr. Solway questions, only tell him that he had a few thousands of his own all ready and waiting for a little venture like this. “And you’ll need all you can get, my boy,” Mr. Solway went on, “if you’re going to marry Amy.” Then this was Gayle? Ross turned his head for one hasty glance—and then, encountering the astonished frown of Mr. Solway, realized what an improper thing he had done. Chauffeurs must not look. He had had this look, though, and had gained a pretty accurate impression of the stranger. A tall young fellow, fair haired and gray eyed; he was stalwart and broad shouldered, and altogether manly, but there was in his face something singularly gentle and engaging. “And that’s the fellow!” thought Ross. “That’s the fellow who’s going to be fooled and lied to.” He liked him. And he liked the vigorous and blustering Mr. Solway, and he liked this rational, masculine conversation. It reassured him. He reflected that, after all, he was not alone in this miserable affair, not hopelessly cornered with the preposterous girl. No; Solway was her stepfather, and the other man was her “Gayle.” They were in it, too. They were his natural allies. “She’s got to tell them, that’s all,” he said to himself. “They’ll both stand by her. I’ll make her tell them. I can’t handle this infernal mystery alone. I’m too much in the dark.” He drove in at the gates, up the driveway, and stopped the car before the house with a smartness that pleased him. Mr. Solway bounced out. “Here, now!” he said. “You—Moss—Moss, that’s it. Moss, just lend a hand with this bag. That’s right; up the stairs—first door on the left. That’s it! That’s it! There you are, Gayle, my boy!” He turned to Ross. “Moss,” he said. “Everything going along all right? That’s it! That’s it! You let me know if there’s anything wrong.” Ross was hard put to it to suppress a smile. He imagined how it would be if he should say: “Well, sir, there _was_ one little thing—a dead man under the housekeeper’s sofa. But, perhaps I shouldn’t mention it.” He looked for a moment into the bluff, scowling, kindly face of the man Eddy had called “a prince.”