"Oh! a chair that can roll the length of this house can roll the distance I desire to go. Money can pay for anything--anything! Thank God, I have money, plenty of it. It means power--even to such a thing as I am. Power, Lynda, power! It can snarl and unsnarl lives; it can buy favour and cause terror. Think what I would have been without it all these years. Think! Why, I have bargained with it; crushed with it; threatened and beckoned with it--now I am going to play with it! I'm going to surprise every one and have a gala time myself. I'm going to set things spinning and then I'm going on a journey. It's queer" (the sneering voice fell to a murmur), "all my prison-years I've thought of this and planned it; the doing of it seems quite the simplest part. I wonder now why I have kept behind the bars when, by a little exertion--a little indifference to opinion--I might have broadened my horizon. But good Lord! I haven't wasted time. I've studied every detail; nothing has escaped me. This" (he touched his head--a fine, almost noble head, covered by a wealth of white hair), "this has been doing double duty while these" (he pointed to his useless legs) "have refused to play their part. While I felt conscientiously responsible, I stuck to my job; but a man has a right to a little freedom of his own!" Lynda drew so close that her stool touched the chair. She bent her cheek upon the shrivelled hand resting upon the arm. The excitement and feverish banter of Truedale affected her painfully. She reproached herself bitterly for having left him to the mercy of his loneliness and imagination. Her interest in, her resentment for, Conning faded before the pitiful display of feeling expressed in every tone and word of Truedale. The touch of the warm cheek against his hand stirred the man. His eyes softened, his face twitched and, because the young eyes were hidden, he permitted his gaze to rest reverently upon the bowed head. She was the only thing on earth he loved--the only thing that cut through his crust of hardness and despair and made him human. Then, from out the unexpected, he asked: "Lynda, when did you break your engagement to John Morrell?" The girl started, but she did not change her position. She never lied or prevaricated to Truedale--she might keep her own counsel, but when she spoke it was simple truth. "About six months ago." "Why didn't you tell me?" "There was nothing to tell, Uncle William." "There was the fact, wasn't there?" "Oh! yes, the fact." "Why did you do it?" "That--is--a long story." Lynda looked up, now, and smiled the rare smile that only the stricken man understood. Appeal, confusion, and detachment marked it. She longed, helplessly, for sympathy and understanding.