“What do you mean?” cried his uncle, growing redder as Ralston turned white. “There is no Katharine Lauderdale, in the first place,” answered the young man. “The thing isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. If it were worth money, I’d tear it up--if it were for a million.” “Oh--would you?” The old gentleman looked at Ralston with a sort of fierce, contemptuous unbelief. “Yes--I would. So would Katharine. I daresay she told you so.” Robert Lauderdale bit his cigar savagely. It was a little too much to be browbeaten by a mere boy, when he had been used to commanding all his life. Whether he understood Ralston, or whether he completely lost his head, was never clear to either of them, then, or afterwards. He took a fresh cheque and filled it in carefully. His face was scarlet now, and his sandy eyebrows were knitted angrily together. When he had done, he scrutinized the order closely, and then laid it upon the end of the desk under Ralston’s eyes. ‘Pay to the order of John Ralston one million dollars, Robert Lauderdale.’ Ralston glanced at the writing without touching the paper, and involuntarily his eyes were fascinated by it for a moment. There was nothing wrong about the cheque this time. In the instant during which he looked at it, as it lay there, the temptation to take it was hardly perceptible to him. He knew it was real, and yet it did not look real. In the progress of his increasing anger there was a momentary pause. The exceeding magnitude of the figure arrested his attention and diverted his thoughts. He had never seen a cheque for a million of dollars before, and he could not help looking at it, for its own sake. “That’s a curiosity, too,” he said, almost unconsciously. “I never saw one.” A moment later he set down his hat, took the slip of paper and tore it across, doubled it and tore it again, and mechanically looked for the waste-paper basket. Robert Lauderdale watched him, not without an anxiety of which he was ashamed, for he had realized the stupendous risk into which his anger had led him as soon as he had laid the cheque on the desk, but had been too proud to take it back. He would not have been Robert the Rich if he had often been tempted to such folly, but the young man’s manner had exasperated him beyond measure. “That was a million of dollars,” he said, in an odd voice, as the shreds fell into the basket. “I suppose so,” answered Ralston, with a sneer, as he took his hat again. “You could have drawn it for fifty millions, I daresay, if you had chosen. It’s lucky you do that sort of thing in the family.” “You’re either tipsy--or you’re a better man than I took you for,” said Robert Lauderdale, slowly regaining his composure. “You’ve suggested already that I am probably drunk,” answered Ralston, brutally. “I’ll leave you to consider the matter. Good evening.” He went towards the door. Old Lauderdale looked after him a moment and then rose, heavily, as big old men do.