“If you raise your voice like that again in this house, I shall certainly have you sent to prison. I’ll have you snug in jail within half an hour. I promise you that.” In declaring that he had not been drinking, Curtin had told the truth; yet his mental processes were those of a drunkard. Of all this man’s many weaknesses, the greatest was a lack of poise; in his soberest moments he was badly ballasted. The experiences of that afternoon, the rapid alternation between rage and terror, had shaken him to the foundation, and had left his mind in a state of unstable equilibrium precisely like that of an inebriate. It careened far to this side or to that at the smallest suggestive impulse. Sponley’s threat of sending him to prison had recalled the nightmare of the afternoon, and his anger gave way to the numbness of fear. “If you were in condition to think,” said Sponley, meditatively, “I could convince you that I didn’t try to lead you into a trap, as you say. I don’t want you in prison on a charge of forgery or embezzlement or whatever it would be. I need you outside. You’ll see that when you get quieted down. How much will it cost to get you out of the hole?” “A little over ten thousand.” The words came monotonously. Sponley kept his eyes on the coffee cup. “Well,” he said at last, “it’s worth the price. I’ll pull you out.” Curtin looked at him in a daze. Then burying his face in his hands he began to sob. Even to Sponley’s tough sensibilities the sight was revolting. “Get up!” he commanded. “Don’t be a disgusting fool.” “I can’t thank you,” the other began brokenly. “I want no thanks.” Sponley’s voice was almost a snarl. “It’s not a favor to you; it’s business. It’s worth ten thousand dollars to me just now to have you in Bagsbury’s bank. You’re in no shape for anything now. Go home and go to sleep and come back here before banking hours, and I’ll talk business with you and arrange to square you with the bank. Come, get up!” Curtin struggled to his feet and started toward the library door. “Not that way,” said Sponley, sharply. “This is the way out.” “I wanted to apologize to Mrs. Sponley for--” Sponley caught him by the arm. “I don’t want to have to kick you out of the house,” he said savagely. “Come with me.” A moment later he spoke to Harriet from the library door,-- “I’ve got to see John Bagsbury for a while this evening.” “Please don’t go just yet. I want to speak to you.” Entering the room he saw her sitting bolt upright in the middle of the big sofa, her hands clasped tight in her lap, her face colorless to the lips. “What’s the matter?” he cried in quick alarm. “Are you sick?” “Please tell me,” she said, ignoring his question, “please tell me all about it--about Mr. Curtin.” “He’d been misled by something I said about lard’s going up into buying a lot of it to-day. Of course, he got caught. He’d taken the bank’s money to trade with. He got a fool notion into his head that I’d meant to soak him.”