"My dear Ethel," he began; but a gesture of hers must have interrupted him, for he checked himself, and went on--"Very well, then, my dear Mrs. Carthew, if you prefer it; you are at once too weak and too scrupulous. A fatal defect, although you make it charming! Until too late, you hid from yourself that you loved me. When that became impossible you ran for shelter behind your vows and a theory--which you know in your heart to be impossible--that I, who had ventured so much for you, did not love you." "Love!" she echoed hoarsely. "What love could it have been that sought this way?" "Well, as it happens, it _was_ a way. Harry? Tut-tut, with Harry I was merely the handiest excuse for going to the devil. Suppose you had never set eyes on me. You know well enough he was bound to gamble away Welland sooner or later, just as he will sooner or later drink himself dead. I am sorry for the child; but, look you, I am going to be frank. It was just through the child I hoped to get you. To save Welland for _him_ I believed you would follow your heart and take my help with my love. You wouldn't. You couldn't help loving me, but--as you put it--you are a good woman: and even now, with the sale but an hour away and a sot of a husband to lead off with poverty, you won't." She had set down the candle on the table; and now, having made a peephole between the two curtains, I saw her lift her head proudly. "No," she said, "to my shame I loved you; but you would buy me, and I am not to be bought." "I know it," he answered, and let out a grim laugh. "But on one point I am going to prove you mistaken. You believe that because I tried bribery I did not love you. You win by that error; but it is an error nevertheless, as I am going to prove." While her eyes questioned him he drew a roll of notes from his pocket. "Your fond brother-in-law intends to buy Welland," said he. "James?" "To be sure," he nodded while he ran through the notes with finger and thumb. "As the eldest brother, James Carthew wants Welland, to add it to the entailed estates. He has always wanted it: but these eight months, since that infant was born to him, he has wanted it ten times more. To-night he bids for it: and for decency's sake he bids through me--which is precisely where he comes to grief." "I don't understand." Leggat went on silently counting the notes. "Three thousand, five hundred," he answered; "the deposit money and a trifle over, in case of accidents. James Carthew is a rich man. I should reckon him up at a hundred and twenty thousand, and be within the mark." "But why should he employ you?" "In the first place, I suppose, because I've played the game for him throughout, and played it pretty successfully." "_You?_"