"There's no occasion to bring in Mrs. Pallinder's name at all, I think," said Gwynne, in so savage a voice that Doctor Vardaman started with astonishment. Their eyes met. "She has nothing to do with this," said the young man constrainedly, averting his gaze almost at the instant. "We're all gentlemen, I hope, and we don't have to talk about a woman." Doctor Vardaman rubbed his chin. "Steven," he said thoughtfully, "I think maybe you'd better let Gwynne manage it his own way----" "But I _have_--I have for a year, and look how he's managed it!" cried Steven; he looked from the doctor to Gwynne in an exasperated bewilderment. "We aren't as well off now as we were a year ago! There's that much more owing us--and he said just the same thing then, to let things alone. Damn it, we've let 'em alone, and see where we are!" There was a devious justice in this argument that, taken with Gwynne's more or less disingenuous behaviour, was not without its effect on the doctor; of course, he told himself, the young fellow's inactivity was capable of some perfectly reasonable explanation; everyone knew that the direction of the Gwynne affairs was a fearfully complicated task, and Doctor Vardaman was not desirous of going further into its details, even if Gwynne had wanted to enlighten him--still he would have been better satisfied if the boy had shown himself more frank and not quite so sulky. It occurred to him, with a fine irony, that here was probably one of Gwynne's cases where there was some right on both sides. The main thing at the moment, he realised, was to get Steven quieted. "I'm sorry, but I--really I can't advise you, Steven," he said in his most moderate voice. "Have you talked to Mr. Templeton? He's your real agent, you know; he does the collecting, doesn't he? I'm sure if he and Gwynne both think----" "_Templeton!_ He's a--a _creature_ of Gwynne's!" cried Steven angrily. "He's no better than a--a mercenary--a--a hired bravo!" Gwynne had to smile. The idea of fat little spectacled Templeton in the role of chief-villain's handy-man, be-cloaked and be-daggered as we are accustomed to figure those romantic gentlemen, was irresistibly comic. But Steven saw the smile and turned purple; he got up, choking and trembling. "Very well, young man, very well!" he said, not without dignity. "I suppose you can afford to laugh--you have the upper hand. It's very funny, no doubt--but _I_ wouldn't laugh at anybody in trouble--not at my own kin anyhow--blood's thicker than water. Oh, yes, I'm very funny, of course; I'm nothing but an old man that don't know anything--and--and a--a kind of a nuisance, I suppose, and and--I don't dress stylish, and it's real funny for me to want my money--oh, yes! You needn't worry, Gwynne, I'm not going to trouble you any more about it--I'll attend to my own affairs after this. Jack, where're my gum-shoes, please? _You_ can let things alone, if you choose, Mr. Peters, but _I'm_----"