"And a woman," supplemented Cherry. Then, more gravely: "I'm the one to blame; I got you into it." "No, I blame no one but myself. Whatever you're responsible for, there's only one person you've harmed--yourself." "What do you mean?" asked Cherry. Her surprise left him unimpressed. "Let's be frank," he said. "It is best to have such things out and be done with them. I traded my friendship for money and I am ruined. You are staking your honor against Hilliard's bank-notes." Her look commanded him, pleaded with him, to stop; but her silence only made him the more fiercely determined to force an explanation. "Oh, I'm in no mood to speak gently," he said; then added, with a sting of contempt in his tone: "I didn't think you would pay quite that price for your copper-mine." Cherry Malotte paled to her lips, and when she spoke her voice was oddly harsh. "Kindly be more explicit; I don't know what you are talking about." "Then, for your own good, you'd better understand. According to accepted standards, there is one thing no woman should trade upon." "Go on!" "You have set yourself to trap Hilliard, and, from what I hear, you are succeeding. He is a married man. He is twice your age. He is notorious--all of which you must know, and yet you have deliberately yielded yourself to him for a price." Suddenly he found the girl standing over him with burning eyes and quivering body. "What right have you to say such things to me?" she cried. "A moment ago you acknowledged yourself a murderer--at least in thought; you said you would sacrifice anything or everything to gain your ends. Do you think I'm like that, too? Are my methods to be called shameful because your own are criminal? And suppose they were! Do you think that you and your love for that unfeeling woman, who sent you out to toil and suffer and sweat your soul dry in the solitude of that horrible country, are the only issues in the world?" "We won't speak of her," he broke in, sharply. "Oh yes, we will You say I have set a price on myself. Well, she set a price on herself, but you can't see it. Her price was your honor, that has crumbled; your conscience, that has rotted. You have paid it, and you would pay double if she exacted it. But one thing you shall not do: you shall not judge of my bargains, nor decide what I have paid to any man." Never before had Boyd seen a woman so transformed by the passion of anger. Her lids had drooped, half hiding her eyes. Her whole expression had hardened; she was the picture of defiant fury. The mask had slipped, and he caught a glimpse of the naked, passionate soul, upheaved to its depths. Oddly enough, he felt it thrill him. "I beg your pardon," he said. "You are your own mistress, and you have the right to make any bargain you choose."