"Why, yes. I have given up the lease of your apartment on West End Avenue and bought a house on Riverside Drive. I thought you would like it better. Everything will be quiet and nice. It'll be more comfortable for you. There's a stable nearby. Your horses and car can be kept there. I'm going to put the house in your name. That way you'll be your own mistress. Besides, I've fixed you up for a new part." [Illustration: "I'VE BOUGHT A HOUSE FOR YOU ON RIVERSIDE DRIVE." _Page 86._] CHAPTER VI. Laura gasped, and opened wide her eyes. A house of her own on Riverside Drive! She had always wished for that; it had been the dream of her life. Why--it meant that independence, wealth were already hers! She need have no more gnawing anxiety about the future. The price? Well, had she not paid it already? Perhaps she had been foolish. The world is hard--one never gets the credit for trying to be decent. Who would care? Yes--one would. She saw a pair of honest gray eyes seeking hers and questioning her, demanding if she had been true to their oath--"until death!" "A new part!" she faltered. "What kind of a part?" A covert smile played about the broker's lips. He had noted her hesitation, and well he knew the weight of his words. He had not studied women all these years for nothing. Carelessly he went on: "One of Charlie Burgess's shows, translated from some French fellow. It's been running over in Paris, Berlin, Vienna, and all those places for a year or more, and appears to be a tremendous hit. It's a big production, and it's going to cost a lot of money to do it here. I told Charlie he could put me down for a half-interest and I'd give all the money, provided that you got an important role. Great part, I'm told--just the kind of thing you've been looking for. Looks as if it might stay in New York all season. That's the change of plan. How does it strike you?" Laura averted her face and made no reply. Going to the edge of the terrace, she leaned against the balustrade, and gazed once more into the depths below. The sun had already begun to set behind the distant mountain-tops, and the canon was beautiful in its tints of purple and amber. "How does it strike you?" he repeated. "I don't know," she replied without turning her head. He rose from his seat and strolled towards her. The good-humor had faded out of his face. The lines about his mouth were more tightly drawn. It was evident that his patience was exhausted and that he was becoming angry. But Brockton never made a scene. No matter how incensed he might be, he never lost his _sang froid_ or forgot his manners. Quietly he asked: "Feel like quitting?" "I can't tell," she replied in the same indifferent tone. "So it's the newspaper man, eh?" "That would be the only reason." Turning quickly, he placed himself in a position so that he faced her. Looking her steadily in the eyes, he said slowly: