His soft hands gripped the arms of his chair. Fury flamed within him; words of menace surged to his lips. But Peter Loveman never had more self-possession than when his situation was most dangerous--and dangerous he certainly now felt it to be. So as he rose he smiled with good-natured regret. “I’m sorry it’s all off, Mary; it would have been big for us both. But you have the right to do as you choose. Well, good luck to you--and good-night.” With a look of almost fatherly benignity, Loveman went out. Mary suspected that regretful, genial smile--but she thought of it only for a moment, for the next instant her mind was on other things. She switched out her lights, and stepping to a window she looked out into the deep silence of the night. What should she do? At last she was alone face to face with her life’s greatest crisis. She had played for big game--for wealth and worldly position--and she had played daringly--and now, at the end, after all her time and bold dreams and care and cleverness, it seemed that she had lost, and lost finally, unalterably. And after all, even had she won, would the winning have been worth the while?... And then there was a resurgence of that self-confidence, that determination, which were such strong elements of her nature. Should she not make one last desperate effort to carry through her plan, despite them all? Her resentment toward Jack’s cold, worldly father suddenly flamed high. Just to balk the older Morton she would like to save Jack and win out herself. But how might it be done?... Almost unconsciously her mind began to revert with nervous intensity to certain methods of that period spent under the influence of her father and later of her uncle Joe--that period of artful criminality that she had long thought of as forever ended. By use of her old skill she might so outwit Jack’s father, might so involve him, that he would gladly come to terms. She stood there in the silent dark, thinking feverishly. CHAPTER XXIV TWO PLEASANT GENTLEMEN When Clifford saw Loveman leave the apartment house and cross rapidly to his cab, he waited to see no more. His next move, as he had planned it, was based upon conjecture, and it had to be executed without a lost moment. He ran back to his waiting taxi-cab, gave the chauffeur Loveman’s address, and thrust a ten-dollar bill into the man’s hands. “Keep the change, and forget the speed laws,” Clifford exclaimed as he sprang in. Five minutes later the rocking machine turned into Loveman’s street. Save for his own car, the street was empty. Not waiting for the machine to slow down, Clifford called “Beat it!” to the chauffeur, leaped to the curb and walked rapidly into Loveman’s apartment house. At the end of the corridor a negro youth lay loosely a-sprawl and snoring on the telephone switchboard, and the elevator door stood open. The sight reassured Clifford on one point: he had beaten Loveman to his home--that is, if Loveman’s purpose had been to come home.