In that moment all the warnings of his sister were unheeded, forgotten. The picture of the man she had drawn faded from his mind, and all he saw in Lambaire was a benefactor, a patron, and a large-minded man of business. He saw things more clearly (so he told himself) without prejudice (so he could tell his sister); these things had to be looked at evenly, calmly. The past, with the privations, which, thanks to his sister’s almost motherly care and self-sacrifice, he had not known or felt, was dead. “I--I hardly know what to say,” he stammered; “of course I should like to carry on my father’s work most awfully--I’ve always been very keen on that sort of thing, exploring and all that....” He was breathless at the prospect which had unexpectedly been opened up to him. When Lambaire extended a large white hand, he grasped and shook it gratefully--he, who had come firm in the resolve to finally end the acquaintance. “He’s butter,” said Whitey afterwards; “keep him away from the Ice and he’s Dead Easy ... it’s the Ice that’s the difficulty.” He shook his head doubtfully. CHAPTER V AMBER ADMITS HIS GUILT And there was an end to it. So Francis Sutton informed his sister with tremendous calm. She stood by the window, drawing patterns with the tips of her fingers on the polished surface of a small table, and her eyes were fixed on the street without. Francis had been illogical and unnecessarily loud in his argument, and she had been beaten down by the erratic and tumbling waves of his eloquence. So she remained quiet, and when he had finished talking for the fifth time, he resentfully remarked upon her sulky silence. “You haven’t given me a chance of speaking, Francis, and I am absolutely bewildered by your change of attitude----” “Look here, Cynthia,” he broke in impatiently, “it’s no good your opening up this wretched subject again--Lambaire is a man of the world, we can’t judge him by convent codes, or by school-girl codes; if you argue the matter from now until quarter-day you won’t budge me. I’m going through with this. It’s a chance that will never come again. I’m sure father would have liked it.” He paused expectantly, but she did not accept the lull as an opportunity. “Now, for goodness’ sake, Cynthia, do not, I beg of you, sulk.” She turned from her contemplation of the outside world. “Do you remember how you came home the other night?” she asked suddenly, and the boy’s face went red. “I don’t think that’s fair,” he said hotly; “a man may make a fool of himself----” “I wasn’t going to speak of that,” she said, “but I want to remind you that a gentleman brought you home--he knew Lambaire better than you or I know him--yes?--you were going to say something?” “Go on,” said the youth, a note of triumph in his voice, “I have something to say upon that subject.” “He said that Lambaire was something worse than a man about town--that he was a criminal, one of the cleverest of criminals, a man without scruple or pity.”