"All right. As soon as I can raise five hundred, I’ll see you, and buy your ticket. Until then, I expect you to leave Payson alone." "Will _you_ leave him alone? That’s the question! I don’t propose to have no interference until you make good with the money." "I’ll make good, all right," said Granthope. "Very well, then." Vixley rose and buttoned what buttons were left on his coat. "When you’re ready to do business, I’m ready. But you see here!" He shook a long, bony finger at the palmist. "If you go to work and try any gum-games with the old man before then, Frank, I’ll break you—like that there hand." He pointed down to the cast on the floor. Then he added easily: "Not that it would do you any good if you did, though. I’ll attend to _that_. I got to protect myself. It’ll be easy enough to fix it so the old man won’t take much stock in what you tell him." "I expect that’s so," Granthope shrugged his shoulders. "I don’t mind saying that if I thought I could do anything that way, I would." "So long, then. The sooner you make your bid, the cheaper it’ll be." He turned from the door and looked the palmist over. "You’re a good one, Frank. I don’t deny you got brains. I wouldn’t mind knowin’ just what you was up to. It must be something elegant." He came up to Granthope and gestured with both hands. "Say—why don’t you let me in? We could work it together, and I’ll lose Gertie. I ain’t no fool, myself, when it comes right down to business." Granthope laughed sarcastically. "I hardly think you can help much in this. It’s a rather delicate proposition, and I’ll have to go it alone. Just as soon as I get the cash I’ll let you know." For an hour after that Granthope sat in his office thinking it over. His offer to Vixley had come on the spur of the moment, and, although he did not regret it, he was at a loss to know how he could make it good. He went over his accounts carefully, inspected his bank-book, made a valuation of his property. He could see no way, at present, to raise sufficient money to buy Vixley off, and yet to sit still and let him go on with Clytie’s father was intolerable. He had seen men ruined by such wiles, and his own conscience was not clean in this matter. There seemed no way of escape. Late that afternoon he decided to call on Fancy Gray. He had hardly seen her since the night she left, and he was troubled in her regard, also. He. dreaded to know just what she was doing, and how she stood it. He had long attempted to deny to himself that she cared too much for him, and always their fiction had been maintained—that fiction which, during their pretty idyl at Alma, so long ago, had crystallized itself into their whimsical motto: "No fair falling in love!" He had kept their pact well enough. He dared not answer for her.