"It's just this, then; and if you wish me to stop say the word; I get reports of various things in various ways. It's part of my philosophy to know of events in advance if I can. I've heard that you are speculating a bit. Is it true?" Randall started involuntarily; but the other was not looking. "How in the world did you know?" he questioned. "Never mind how I know. I'd tell you if it would do any good; but it wouldn't. It's true, isn't it?" "Yes," Randall moistened his lips; "a little." "Things coming a trifle slow for you, are they? Hard to meet expenses--" "No; it's not that; but--" "I understand perfectly." Roberts was still inspecting the pattern of the paper with minute attention. "As perhaps your best friend, though, don't do it. If at any time you need money, really need it, remember I am your friend, and don't hesitate to tell me. But outside of that--" He halted significantly, waiting; then, sufficient time having elapsed, he looked at the other again directly. "Now for the fatherly admonition," he digressed evenly, "or whatever you please to call it. You're doing well here, and will do better as time goes by. You're on your own feet, solid. Don't gamble with things as they are, ever. It's contagious, I know, when a man gets a little surplus, and looking over the rise of the horizon sees such an infinite field beyond; but steer clear. Some men can gamble and lose, and forget it and come up smiling again. Others are fashioned by nature differently. Once down they stay down; and regret as long as they live. It's a fundamental difference no power can change. I hope I haven't hurt you unforgivably, Randall?" Harry Randall glanced up, and his eyes held steady. "No; and I'll not forget. I promise you that." Involuntarily he started to rise, his hand half extended, his eyes bright; but he sat down again. "If I could only thank you right, Roberts," he voiced tensely, "could only show you in some way that I appreciate--" He halted, the sentence so consciously inadequate, incomplete,--"If I only could," he repeated helplessly. A moment they sat there so, looking at each other, merely looking. Then at last, with an obvious weariness Randall had never seen him exhibit before, Roberts slowly arose. Still another moment he stood there, looking down. "'Roberts,'" he echoed in a low tone, "'Roberts,' always 'Roberts'! Not 'Darley,' even then." He turned abruptly toward his own rooms, his great shoulders all but blocking the doorway as he passed out. "Good-night," he said. CHAPTER X DECISION The light on the porch was dim, and as Elice Gleason, answering the ring, opened the outer door she stared as one who sees unbelievable things. For a moment she did not utter a sound, merely stood there gazing at the visitor with a look that was only partially credulous; in sudden weakness, oddly unlike her normal composure, she covered her face with her hands.