'They've shut her up,' he said. 'They're going to take her away. Because she loves me. They're breaking her heart--and mine. Martha'll be back to-morrow. And Mary'n' her mother. It'll be out then--what--what I did. Everybody'll be talking. I'll have to go away too. I can't live here--not after that.' A new and fascinating thought came. 'The watchman'll be coming around. Pretty soon, maybe. He'll find me here. I s'pose he'll shoot me. I don't care. Let him. In the morning they'll find my body. And the ring'll be in my pocket. And Mr Galbraith's cheque. And in the morning Mr Merchant'll have that letter. Maybe they'll discover I was some good after all. Maybe they'll be sorry then.' But on second thought this notion lost something of its appealing quality. He went away; after hours more appeared in the rooms and kept his long-suffering partner awake during much of the night. At half-past eight the next morning he mounted the front steps of the Smith place and rang the bell. A mildly surprised butler showed him into the spacious parlour. He waited, fiercely. A door opened and closed. He heard a heavy step. Madame Watt entered the room, frowning a little. 'What is it, Henry? Why did you come?' 'I want you to see this,' he said, thrusting the cheque into her hand. Then, before she could more than glance at the figures, he was forcing another paper on her. 'And this!' he cried. 'Please read it!' She, still frowning, turned the pages. 'But what's all this, Henry?' 'Can't you see? I went around this morning. Mr Merchant had it all ready for me. It's _Galbraith's Magazine_. They're going to print my stories and pay me three thousand. That cheque's for part of it. I get book royalties besides. And twenty-five a week for three years against the price of new work. That's just so I won't write for anybody else. And Mr Galbraith himself promised me he'd make me famous. He's going to advertise me all over the country. Right away. This year. He says there's been nothing like me since Kipling and Stevenson!' Printed here, coldly, this impassioned outburst may seem to border on absurdity. But shrewd, strong-willed Madame Watt, taking it in, studying him, found it far from absurd. The egotism in it, she perceived, was that of youth as much as of genius. And the blazing eyes, the working face, the emotional uncertainty in the voice, these were to be reckoned with. They were youth--gifted, uncontrolled, very nearly irresistible youth. And as she said, brusquely--'Sit down, Henry!'--and herself dropped heavily into a chair and began deliberately reading the document of the great Galbraith, she knew, in her curiously storm-beaten old heart, that she was sparring for time. Before her, still on his feet, apparently unaware that she had spoken, unaware of everything on earth outside of his own turbulent breast, stood an incarnation of primal energy.