He got up and stood beside her. She watched him with a certain fascination, curiously sensible of his power over her and others. The native confidence that he had in himself percolated slowly through her. "Tell me truly what has passed between you and this young man." She was expecting any question except this. The audacity of it overwhelmed her, as he had foreseen that it would. She broke down, sobbing bitterly, hiding her face from the keen eyes looking down into her very soul. Quinney laid his hand upon her head tenderly. For the moment this strangely-assorted pair, linked together by an interest common to each, yet antagonistic to each, stood together upon a plane high above that on which they moved habitually. "I ain’t no saint," said Quinney solemnly. "And I tell you this, Mabel Dredge, I’ve been through hell during the past twelve hours; and I’m not out of it yet. Stand up, you poor dear! Look me in the face, for then you’ll know that you can trust me. Give me your hand—so! It’s a nice little hand. Ought there to be a wedding-ring on it?" "Yes," she whispered. *II* Susan came in shortly after Mabel had gone. Her face was very troubled, but obstinacy sat enthroned upon a head carried at a higher angle than usual. Quinney said facetiously: "Come to throw yourself at my feet and ask forgiveness?" "Certainly not." "Meant all you said last night?" "Every word of it." "What is Posy doing?" "Crying her eyes out, I dare say." "Sounds sloppy." "Mr. Tomlin is here. Hateful man! I suppose he’ll side with you!" "That remains to be seen. I doubt it. Ask Tom to step up." Susan went out with dignity. Tomlin had been to a banquet the night before, and bore the signs of intemperance in eating and drinking upon his large mottled face. He greeted Quinney sulkily, unable to purge his mind of the conviction that Soho Square ought to come to Bond Street. He asked thickly: "Ever suffer from indigestion?" "Never." "I do," said Tomlin gloomily. He added with finality: "Port, even the best, atop o’ bubbly wine is a mistake after fifty. What you want me for, young Joe?" "Glad I look young, Tom. I don’t feel it this morning." Tomlin stared at him. "Blest if you ain’t made a night of it, too." "Here’s something to cheer us up." He pushed across the desk Hunsaker’s cheque for eleven hundred pounds. Tomlin’s heavy features relaxed into a smile. Quinney scribbled some figures on a memorandum pad, and invited his colleague to verify them. The sum represented the exact amount due to Tomlin as his share of the plunder. "Quite O.K., Joe." "Like your bit o’ ready now?" "Never refuse cash, my lad." Quinney wrote out a cheque, and a receipt. Tomlin accepted the cheque, placing it in a bulky pocket-book. He glared askance at the receipt, which set forth that the sum just paid was a commission upon the sale of eight chairs to Cyrus P. Hunsaker, of Hunsaker.