“And that, my dear young lady, is the position.” The Saint stood like a man turned to granite. Presently a familiar voice answered: “I can’t believe it.” The Saint edged away from the wall, so that he could see into the room through the space between the half-drawn curtains. Patricia was in the chair opposite Bittle, tight-lipped, her handkerchief twisted to a rag between her fingers. Bittle laughed—a throaty chuckle that did not disturb the comfortable impassiveness of his florid features. Templar also chuckled. If that chuckle could have been heard, it would have been found to have an unpleasant timbre. “Even documents—bonds—receipts—won’t convince you, I suppose?” asked the millionaire. He pulled a sheaf of papers from the pocket of his dinner jacket and tossed them into the girl’s lap. “I’ve been very patient, but I’m getting tired of this hanky-panky. I suppose just seeing you made me silly and sentimental—but I’m not such a sentimental fool that I’m going to take another mortgage on an estate that isn’t worth one half of what I’ve lent your aunt already.” “It’ll break her heart,” said Patricia, white-faced. “The alternative is breaking my bank.” The girl started up, clutching the papers tensely. “You couldn’t be such a swine!” she said hotly. “What’s a few thousand to you?” “This,” said Bittle calmly: “it gives me the power to make terms.” Patricia was frozen as she stood. There was a silence that ticked out a dozen sinister things in as many seconds. Then she said, in a strained, unnaturally low voice: “What terms?” Sir John Bittle moved one fat hand in a faint gesture of deprecation. “Please don’t let’s be more melodramatic than we can help,” he said. “Already I feel very self-conscious and conventional. But the fact is, I should like to marry you.” For an instant the girl was motionless. Then the last drop of blood fled from her cheeks. She held the papers in her two hands, high above her head. “Here’s my answer, you cad!” She tore the documents across and across and flung the pieces from her, and then stood facing the millionaire with her face as pale as death and her eyes flaming. “Good for you, kid!” commented the Saint inaudibly. Bittle, however, was unperturbed, and once again that throaty chuckle gurgled in his larynx without kindling any corresponding geniality in his features. “Copies,” he said simply, and at that point the Saint thought that the conversational tension would be conveniently relieved with a little affable comment from a third party.