"Aymer's done well enough for you so far," pursued Peter Masters from the depths of his chair. "We will grant him all credit, but this is the affair of a business man: it requires capital: it requires business knowledge: and it requires faith. You will have to go to someone if you don't come to me, and I'm making you a better offer than you'll get elsewhere. I'll do more. We'll buy up the other men if they are dangerous. You can have their experience, too. It's only a question of investing enough money." As he stood there in the window Christopher realised it all: how near his darling project lay to his heart, how great and harassing would be the difficulties of launching it on the world; how sure success would be under this man's guidance, and yet how with all his heart and soul and unreasoning mind he hated the thought of it, and would have found life itself dear at the purchase of his freedom. His hands shook a little as he turned, but his voice was quiet and steady. "It is very generous of you, sir, but I could not possibly pledge myself to you or any man." "I'm asking no pledge. I'm only asking you to complete your own invention, and when it's completed I'll help you to use it." "I must be free." "You own you can't use any discovery by yourself, you'd have to go to someone. I come to you. The credit will be yours. I only find the means and share the return--fair interest on capital." "It's not that." "Then what? Do you doubt my financial ability or financial soundness?" The meshes of the net were very narrow. Christopher sat with his head on his hands. He could waste no force in inventing reasons, neither could he explain the intangible truth. It was a fight of wills solely. "I can't do it," said Christopher doggedly. "You are only a boy, but I credit you with more common-sense and a better eye for business than many young men double your age. What displeases you in my offer? Where do you want it altered?" "I don't want it at all, Mr. Masters. I won't accept it. I don't think my reason matters at all. I know I shall never do so well, but I refuse." "There are others who would take it. Suppose you are forestalled?" Christopher looked him straight in the eyes. "It's a fair fight so far." "A fight is always fair to the winner," returned Masters grimly. There was a silence. The next thrust reached the heart of the matter. "What is your objection to dealing with me?" Peter Masters leant forward as he spoke and put a finger on the other's knee; his hard, keen eyes sought the far recesses of his son's mind, but they did not sink deep enough to read his soul. Christopher struggled with the impetuous words, the direct bare truth that sought for utterance. Truth was too pure and subtle a thing to give back here. When he answered it was in his old deliberate manner, as he had answered Fulner--as he would invariably answer when he mistrusted his own judgment.