Having space for deliberation, Perkins was seized with a brilliant conception: a project that anticipated nothing less than the getting of Geoff drunk and starting him on what Perkins called “a protracted spree.” He reasoned that a man of his cousin's inclinations could only hold up so far in combating the unholy charms of a properly presented temptation. But Perkins was not called upon to assume the tempter's rtle. Geoff accomplished his downfall himself. There was one fatal quality in all his plotting. He invariably gave out before the final blow was dealt. He now exemplified this by going away when there was most cause for his remaining. He could not stand the quiet longer. He would have one bout, he told himself,—just one. When it was over with he would return and Margaret should go with him where he pleased. He felt almost safe in leaving: she was so ill. X Then,” said Philip shortly, “if I understand you aright, you wish me to discontinue my visits?” Mr. Gerard was rather taken aback by the directness with which Philip put it. To be sure that was what it amounted to, but—“You see, you keep other men at a distance: you take up most of the leisure she has to devote to society. I don't mean to be hard. I trust you appreciate the delicacy of my position—the peculiarity of it. I want to be fair to you and at the same time just to Barbara. It occurs to me that I can only accomplish this by having you——” He was very much mixed—very red and very miserable. The cause of all his annoyance stood before him—cool and collected, but it was the calm of desperation. The comfort of knowing this was, however, denied to Mr. Gerard. He took up the tangled thread of his discourse. “My dear boy, you must know I don't want to seem hard”—getting a fresh start—“I don't want to interfere with your happiness, but where my daughter is concerned I must be just. I can't be remiss in my duty there. Now I leave it to you—to your sense of fairness. You know what I think—do what you consider right.” “I suppose you can not understand just how I got rid of my money,” Philip said grimly. “I confess I can't,” Mr. Gerard replied nervously. “Your admission has been a great surprise to me. It was only a month or so ago that you had quite a large sum saved and now you inform me it's all gone, and you don't tell me where.” “I can not, Mr. Gerard.” “Of course—of course. That is your business. I appreciate that—I ask for no explanation—and I do like your frankness in coming to me at once,” but there was small favor in the glance he bestowed upon Philip. “If it's gone—why——-” he came to a stop again. “It is gone. Every penny of it.” Philip said relentlessly. “It's very unusual, very.” “And you had rather I slow up on my visits?” “I leave it entirely with you, as I said before. I don't understand and I am not satisfied. I—really it may be as well for you to keep away. But do whatever you think proper.”