Her confusion answered him. She was angry, indignant, scornful; but she could not prevent the red blood rushing into her cheeks. She retorted sharply: "That’s none of your business, sir!" Quinney chuckled. A ray of light flashed across his dark horizon. "Don’t be too sure o’ that, my dear. Perhaps it is my business; anyway, I’m going to make it my business, because I take a fatherly interest in you." "I can manage my own affairs, Mr. Quinney." "No, you can’t. Look ye here. I’m a wonderful guesser—always was. You like James Miggott. Nothing to be ashamed of in that. I’ll be bound he likes you!" Mabel fidgeted. Quinney’s voice was kind. It rang true. The desire to confide in this odd little man, so masterful, so persuasive when he chose, grew as swiftly as Jack the Giant Killer’s beanstalk. "Doesn’t he like you?" he asked insistently. "He used to like me," she answered mournfully. "Ah! Now, Mabel, there are just as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it." "And what time have I to catch fish?" "S’pose you was my daughter, I shouldn’t like you to marry James. This is on the strict Q.T., just between me and you, James was a faker of old furniture till he came to me." "He’s no better, I dare say, and no worse, than other men in his trade!" "Tch! tch! He’s lucky to have a nice girl to stick up for him. Now, my dear"—his voice became very soft and confidential—"you say that James used to like you. Why has he cooled off, hey?" She answered miserably: "I don’t know." "Cheer up! Maybe I can help you. Lordy! Don’t cry! Answer me this—straight. Do you still want him?" "Ye-es." It was a doleful, long-drawn-out monosyllable, eloquent of much left unsaid. Quinney nodded sympathetically, although his small eyes were sparkling. "At one time, I take it, you thought he was yours?" She was too overcome to utter a word. "Do you believe that he likes somebody else?" He paused, waiting for an answer. She twisted her fingers, refused to meet his eyes, moved restlessly. He went on, playing upon her emotions: "Do you know who that somebody is? Come, be square with me, my dear. Is it a young lady who shall remain nameless—a young lady lately returned from school; a young lady whom James Miggott will never marry—never?" His suppressed excitement communicated itself to her. She was clever enough to understand exactly what he wished to convey. She glanced up and nodded. Quinney drew in his breath sharply; his manner changed. "And you still want him?" "Yes." "Queer creatures you women are, to be sure!" "We can’t pick and choose like men." "If you want him, you shall have him." She shook her head dubiously. "You don’t know James, sir." "Ho! Don’t I? Better than you know him, better than he knows himself. I’ll help you, my girl, but you must help me." "How?"