"And why not?" shortly. "I'm no longer a young man particularly. I've never had a place that I could call home in my life; never for a day that I can remember. I want one now, fancy I see the possibility of making one; a place where I can keep a friend now and then if I wish, where I could even order in a supper and entertain if I saw fit. I chance to have the ability to pay for the privilege, and am willing to pay. That's my affair. You chance to be able to make that home possible--and incidentally enjoy it yourself. It's like the silver mine,--mutual benefit, share and share alike. The cases seem to me parallel, quite parallel." Opposite Harry Randall sat very still. In absent forgetfulness he polished the big glasses the second time and sprung them back carefully on his nose. But even yet he did not answer, merely sat there waiting; awaiting the moment to counter, to refute. "Am I not right?" asked Roberts, bluntly. "Isn't the proposition logical?" "Logical, yes. The logic is very good." Randall glanced up keenly. The moment for which he had been waiting had come, more quickly than he had expected. "So _good_ in fact that I see but one fault." "And that?" This time the keen eyes smiled, very candidly. "The sole fault, so far as I can see, is that you don't believe in it yourself." For the space wherein one could count ten slowly the two men looked at each other; slowly, in turn, on Roberts' firm fighter's face there formed a smile, a peculiar, appreciative smile. "Granted," he said. "I admit failure." The smile passed like a dropped curtain. "Moreover be assured I shall not dissimulate again. As a friend, or whatever you wish, however, I advise you to think carefully before you refuse an offer made in good faith and to your own advantage." Listening, Harry Randall straightened. His lips closed tightly for a second. "You mean, I presume," the words were painfully exact, "to remind me that you hold my note for four hundred dollars, and to imply--" he halted significantly. For a moment the other man said nothing, the face of him told nothing. Then deliberately, from an inner pocket, he drew out a leather wallet, from the wallet a strip of paper, and held it so the other could read. Still without a word he tore it to bits. "The devil take your note!" he observed, succinctly and without heat. "Mr. Roberts, you--" Randall's face was crimson, "you--" "Yes--I--" "You didn't mean--that, then, really?" Roberts said nothing. "I'm grateful for the confidence, believe me. It's not misplaced, either. Accept my assurance of that too." "My name is Roberts, not Shylock. I told you before I am American born, of American parents."