“Why, the fool who’s most anxious to be broke himself,” answered Sir Terence. There appeared to be reservations about it in Tremayne’s mind. “It’s a devilish stringent regulation,” he criticised. “But very salutary and very necessary.” “Oh, quite.” Tremayne’s agreement was unhesitating. “But I shouldn’t care to feel the restraint of it, and I thank heaven I have no enemy thirsting for my blood.” Sir Terence’s brow darkened. His face was turned away from his secretary. “How can a man be confident of that?” he wondered. “Oh, a clean conscience, I suppose,” laughed Tremayne, and he gave his attention to his papers. Frankness, honesty and light-heartedness rang so clear in the words that they sowed in Sir Terence’s mind fresh doubts of the galling suspicion he had been harbouring. “Do you boast a clean conscience, eh, Ned?” he asked, not without a lurking shame at this deliberate sly searching of the other’s mind. Yet he strained his ears for the answer. “Almost clean,” said Tremayne. “Temptation doesn’t stain when it’s resisted, does it?” Sir Terence trembled. But he controlled himself. “Nay, now, that’s a question for the casuists. They right answer you that it depends upon the temptation.” And he asked point-blank: “What’s tempting you?” Tremayne was in a mood for confidences, and Sir Terence was his friend. But he hesitated. His answer to the question was an irrelevance. “It’s just hell to be poor, O’Moy,” he said. The adjutant turned to stare at him. Tremayne was sitting with his head resting on one hand, the fingers thrusting through the crisp fair hair, and there was gloom in his clear-cut face, a dullness in the usually keen grey eyes. “Is there anything on your mind?” quoth Sir Terence. “Temptation,” was the answer. “It’s an unpleasant thing to struggle against.” “But you spoke of poverty?” “To be sure. If I weren’t poor I could put my fortunes to the test, and make an end of the matter one way or the other.” There was a pause. “Sure I hope I am the last man to force a confidence, Ned,” said O’Moy. “But you certainly seem as if it would do you good to confide.” Tremayne shook himself mentally. “I think we had better deal with the matter of this dispatch that was tampered with at Penalva.” “So we will, to be sure. But it can wait a minute.” Sir Terence pushed back his chair, and rose. He crossed slowly to his secretary’s side. “What’s on your mind, Ned?” he asked with abrupt solicitude, and Ned could not suspect that it was the matter on Sir Terence’s own mind that was urging him--but urging him hopefully. Captain Tremayne looked up with a rueful smile. “I thought you boasted that you never forced a confidence.” And then he looked away. “Sylvia Armytage tells me that she is thinking of returning to England.”