The next few minutes were occupied in the writing of Vita's reply to her father. It was practically dictated by Von Salzinger, as had been her earlier letter. He left her no choice in what she must say, and, at the conclusion of the writing, read it carefully over, and finally folded it and sealed it himself. He looked on silently while she addressed the envelope to Sir Andrew Farlow. Then he took possession of it and placed it in an inner pocket. With the completion of the letter his manner seemed to undergo a change. The smoothness, even deferential atmosphere of the man merged into one of sharp suspicion. His brows drew together, and a quick sidelong glance flashed in the woman's direction, and a surly note sounded in his next words. "It is a fool that can trust a woman--a woman in love. How do I know that your father will not betray me to this man, Ruxton Farlow? How do I know that you will fulfil your promise? You, a woman hating me, and in love with Farlow. I am mad, mad to risk it. You hate me--because I would save you and your father. If Farlow knew there would be no mercy for me. For you I am imperilling my life in every direction. Von Berger, and all he stands for, shadows me from behind. Before me is a man robbed of his love." Vita had risen from the table. She had turned to the fire and stood leaning against the great mantel. "Your estimate of human character need not alarm you. Remember, wanton treachery is almost as rare as the highest virtues. Men and women do not betray unless they can see some gain ahead. My father needs safety and security, not only for himself but for me. I, too, want these things. Your conditions will be fulfilled to the letter because we need your aid. Will that satisfy you? Is it commercial enough? You have set the price, and I have agreed to it. Nor am I bankrupt. It is an agreement between us, and the fact that it is not set out on paper, and duly signed by witnesses, makes it surely the safer." The man's hard eyes were fixed steadily upon the beautiful face. "Your tongue is bitter," he said in a deep guttural tone. "But no more bitter than my lot. Please go now. Human endurance has its limits. If you force me to mine I shall fling all to the four winds of heaven, and accept the fate marked out for me by the merciless tyrants who prevail at Berlin." CHAPTER XXVI RUXTON WINS A TRICK It was the close of a long and busy day for both of them, and father and son, in the interim preceding dinner, under a bright moon, paced together the broad stone paths of the formal terrace gardens of Dorby Towers. For Ruxton the confined spaces of the house were suffocating. His nerves were on edge. His father, with the calm philosophy of his years, merely sought the fresh air which the work in his office denied him, even though it possessed the damp chill of an English autumn night. "Anybody else besides Caistor coming for the week-end?" Sir Andrew's sidelong glance was penetrating.