“But couldn’t you see them, or something, and explain?” “My dear Miss Daventry,” said Perrison, gently, “I must ask you to be reasonable. What can I explain? Your brother wanted money, and he adopted a criminal method of getting it. That I am afraid—ugly as it sounds—is all there is to it.” “Then, Mr. Perrison—can nothing be done?” She bent forward eagerly, her hands clasped, her lips slightly parted; and once again came that faint noise from the end of the conservatory. But Mr. Perrison was too engrossed to heed it this time; the nearness, the appeal of this girl, who from the time he had first seen her six months previously at a theatre had dominated his life, was making his senses swim. And with it the veneer began to drop; the hairy heel began to show, though he made a tremendous endeavour to keep himself in check. “There is one thing,” he said, hoarsely. “And I hope you will understand that I should not have been so precipitate—except for the urgency of your brother’s case. If I go to Messrs. Gross and say to them that a prosecution by them would affect me personally, I think I could persuade them to take no further steps.” Wonder was beginning to dawn in the girl’s eyes. “Affect you personally?” she repeated. “If, for instance, I could tell them that for family reasons—urgent, strong family reasons—they would be doing me a great service by letting matters drop, I think they would do it.” She rose suddenly—wonder replaced by horror. She had just realised his full meaning. “What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Perrison?” she said, haughtily. And then the heel appeared in all its hairiness. “If I may tell them,” he leered, “that I am going to marry into the family I’ll guarantee they will do nothing more.” “Marry you?” The biting scorn in her tone changed the leer to a snarl. “Yes—marry me, or see your brother jugged. Money won’t save him—so there’s no good going to your father. Money will square up the Smith show—it won’t square the other.” And then his tone changed. “Why not, little girl? I’m mad about you; have been ever since I saw you at a theatre six months ago. I’m pretty well off even for these days, and——” He came towards her, his arms outstretched, while she backed away from him, white as a sheet. Her hands were clenched, and it was just as she had retreated as far as she could, and the man was almost on her, that she saw red. One hand went up; hit him—hit the brute—was her only coherent thought. And the man, realising it, paused—an ugly look in his eyes. Then occurred the interruption. A strangled snort, as of a sleeper awakening, came from behind some palms, followed by the creaking of a chair. With a stifled curse Perrison fell back and the girl’s hand dropped to her side as the branches parted and Archie Longworth, rubbing his eyes, stepped into the light.