“His father!” An angry flush tinted the older man’s cheeks. “Jack was not unusually bad or weak, and he was naturally most likable. He would have turned out well enough if his father had trained him right from the start and placed a man’s responsibilities--” “I don’t want to hear any damned sermon!” the other interrupted. “What’s done, is done! I’ve got to face the present. I’ve done all I can to save him--and I’ve failed!” He paused, then went on in savage desperation. “And if anything is going to be done, it’s got to be done quick! I’ve controlled him, to an extent, by controlling his money. But a fool aunt of his died the other day, and left him a legacy of two hundred thousand which automatically becomes his on his twenty-fifth birthday--and he’ll be twenty-five in a month. If he’s not got hold of before he gets that money, then the last chance is gone!” He was silent a moment. Then came another burst, even more desperate. “God, can’t you see what it means to me?--my only son!--all the plans I’ve built on him!--and him come to this! For God’s sake, isn’t there anything that can be done to save him!” Clifford regarded him steadily. But there had suddenly begun a wild pounding of his heart. “There is just one thing that might possibly save your son.” “What’s that?” the other cried quickly. Clifford hesitated, while the struggle which had so swiftly arisen within himself fought itself out. In spite of all that had happened, a dream had persisted in him. If he spoke the thought that was in his mind, and if that suggestion were accepted and carried to a successful conclusion, it would mean the end, forever, of this persistent dream.... And yet--there was that plan and purpose that had guided his attitude toward Mary Regan these many months: that Mary should be allowed to play her hand out--that Life should test her. And then, in a flash, he was seeing again the letter he had glimpsed when he had entered Mr. Morton’s room at the Biltmore--that letter with its unmistakable intimation. A flame of anger went searingly through him. Well, given into his hands was a method of putting Mary to the uttermost test--of proving who and what she was: and a method of bringing this whole matter to a head--for Mary--for everybody. “What is it, man?” Mr. Morton repeated. “You wouldn’t pay the price,” said Clifford. “If I could get results I’d pay any price!” “I’m not so sure you would, but I’ll try you.” Clifford stepped to the little wall telephone, done in gray-and-gold to match the room, and asked for Mary’s number at the Mordona. After a long wait Mary’s voice sounded on the wire. “This is Clifford,” he said. “I want to see you at once at Le Minuit--very important. Ask Le Bain to show you where I am.... All right.” “Who is the party?” demanded Mr. Morton when Clifford had hung up. “I think it best for you not to know until the party comes,” replied Clifford. “The party should be here in half an hour.” CHAPTER XXVI