She laughed, a low little laugh that somehow grated upon his nerves. "You shall know--when I know." "Forgive me," he said quickly. "But from something Ormsby said----" "He should not have spoken of it; I have given him no right," she said coldly. "You make me twice sorry: once if I am a trespasser, and again if I have unwittingly broken a confidence. But as a friend--a very old friend--I ventured----" She interrupted him again, but this time her laugh did not hurt him. "Yes; our friendship antedates Mr. Ormsby; it is old enough to excuse anything you said--or were going to say." "Thank you," he rejoined, and he meant it. "What I was going to say touches a matter which I believe you haven't confided to any one. May I talk business for a few minutes?" "If you will light your pipe and go on smoking. It makes me nervous to have people hang on the brink of things." He lighted the pipe, wondering what other thing he might do to allay her nervousness. None the less, he would not go back from his purpose, which was barrier-building. "I have thought, wholly without warrant, perhaps, that your loss in this railroad steal has had something to do with the postponement of your happiness--and Ormsby's. Has it?" "And if it should have?" "I merely wanted to say that we still have a fighting chance. But one of the hard and fast conditions is that every individual stockholder shall hang on to his or her holdings like grim death." She caught her breath with a little gasp. "The encouragement comes too late for us. We have parted with our stock." Kent turned cold and hot and cold again while she was saying it. Then the lawyer in him came uppermost. "Is it gone beyond recall? How much too late am I?" he demanded. "My mother wrote the letter to-day. She had an offer from some one in New York." Kent was on his feet instantly. "Has that letter been mailed? Because if it has, it must be stopped by wire!" Miss Brentwood rose. "It was on the hall table this afternoon; I'll go and see," and in a moment she returned with the letter in her hand. Kent took it from her as if it had been an edged weapon or a can of high explosives. "Heavens! what a turn you gave me!" he said, sitting down again. "Can I see your mother?" "I think she has gone to bed. What do you want to do?" "I want to tell her that she mustn't do any such suicidal thing as this." "You don't know my mother," was the calm reply. "Mr. Ormsby said everything he could think of." "Then we must take matters into our own hands. Will you help me?" "How?" she asked. "By keeping your own counsel and trusting me. Your mother supposes this letter has gone: it has gone--this way." He tore the sealed envelope across and across and dropped the pieces into his pocket. "Now we are safe--at least until the man at the other end writes again." It shocked her a little, and she did not promise to be a party to the subterfuge. But neither did she say she would not.