“Stop!” he said. “Wait!” for she had swept, with the dignity of an insulted goddess toward the bell. “So help me Heaven, it is true! He will tell you so himself, if you are foolish enough to ask him. He is a fraud--well, well, he’s a ruined man, then. Up to his neck in debts, the Grange is sunk, the very furniture under a bill of sale; nothing can save him--nothing. He will have to turn out, neck and crop. Turn out! You don’t know what that means. But he does! The day he leaves here a ruined, broken man, dates his death-warrant! It does, by Heaven! and out he goes, unless you accept me, Olivia!” “Unless--unless----Oh, you are mad!” she panted. “Am I? No, I’m not. It’s you who are mad--with pride. Do you think I’m an idiot and don’t know what I’m talking about? What I tell you is true; and what is more, I hold your father’s bonds----” “You----” “Yes,” and he nodded, with a smile. “I’ve got ’em, one and all. At a word from me, he can be sold up and turned out. A word, a sign, and”--with a sudden, sullen light in his suspicious, restless eyes--“and, by God! I’ll do it if----Look here, it will rest with you! Say you’ll be my wife--by Heaven! I’ll do my best to make you happy--and the day we’re married I’ll put the whole of these bonds and mortgages into your hands--you can light a fire with them. And I’ll do more; I’ll give you twenty thousand pounds--fifty--what do I care! I tell you I’m a millionaire! Money is dirt, stones, dross--you can fling it broadcast, roll in it----” She stopped him with a gesture, entreating, piteous, desperate. “Does--does he--my father--know this?” she panted. He smiled cunningly. “No,” he said. “No; I knew better than to tell him. I leave it to you to decide whether he goes out of the Grange to die of a broken heart. He doesn’t know it.” “Thank God!” she cried. “Oh, father, father!” and she sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. He stole up to her and ventured--actually dared--to lay his hot hand upon her white arm. “Hush! hush!” he stammered, “I can hear him coming. Don’t--don’t cry. You can’t help yourself. I’ll--I’ll leave you to think of it. Remember, it’s life or death for him, just that--life or death,” and with a thirsty, wistful look, as if he would have liked to catch her up in his arms, he stole from the room. As he paused outside the door to gain his breath, a smile of triumph shone on his face, wet with perspiration; then suddenly it changed, and his features were momentarily distorted by an expression of abject fear. Then he seemed to shake off the emotion, and with a husky laugh, he muttered: “I’ve got her, and by Heaven, I’ll do it! She’s worth it!” CHAPTER XII. BY PROXY.