Suddenly Spencer's right fist came down on the table with a resounding whack. "Kathleen turned me down this morning." Whitney's eyes were riveted on his guest but he said nothing, and Spencer continued earnestly. "I want you to use your influence...." "No." The monosyllable was spoken quietly, but the gleam in Whitney's eyes was a silent warning. "We will leave my daughter's name out of the discussion. Was there anything else you wished to see me about? If not...." and he half rose. Instead of answering Spencer lolled back in his chair and, taking his time, lighted a cigar. "Your note for twenty thousand dollars is due in ten days," he announced. "Are you prepared to take it up?" There was a protracted pause before Whitney spoke. "Are you willing to let me curtail your note with a payment of five thousand dollars?" he asked. "No." Whitney's hand closed spasmodically over the bottle of whiskey, and he was livid with anger as he glared at the younger man. Spencer's good looks were marred by signs of recent dissipation, and the coarse lines about his thin lips destroyed the air of refinement given him by his well-cut clothes. Whitney cast a despairing look about the room, at the pretty knick-knacks, pictures, and handsome furniture--all indicated a cultivated woman's taste. How his wife loved her belongings! With the curtailing of his income through the shrinking and non-payment of dividends, he had drawn upon his principal and--keeping up appearances was an expensive game. Every piece of property that he owned was heavily mortgaged, and every bit of collateral was already deposited to cover notes at his bank. Slowly Whitney's fingers loosened their grip upon the bottle of whiskey. "Well," and his voice cut the stillness like a whiplash. "What is your pound of flesh?" Spencer knocked the ash from the end of his cigar into the tray with care that none should fall upon the polished mahogany table top. "Kathleen might reconsider--eh?" suggestively. "And--eh--there is your invention--_your latest invention_." It was approaching midnight when Whitney stepped alone into the hall. The hum of voices rose from the room below; evidently Vincent had neglected to close the drawing-room doors, or else the Sisters in Unity needed air. Listening intently, he judged from the direction of the voices that the women had not gone into the dining-room. Whitney walked toward the elevator, paused, then continued down the hall and without rapping entered Kathleen's sitting-room. But he stopped on the threshold on beholding Kathleen sitting before her desk with her head resting upon its flat top, sound asleep. By her side lay paint box and brushes and a half-completed miniature of Captain Miller. Without disturbing her, Whitney crept softly from the room. CHAPTER X SISTERS IN UNITY It was a very much flurried Vincent who admitted Senator Randall Foster, and helped him off with his overcoat.