But Marten, still clutching the pistol--a modern weapon of fearsome effect when fired in conditions which made faulty aim impossible--seemed to be marshaling his disrupted thoughts. His eyes were veiled, his body was bent as though old age had suddenly beset him; but the ivory-white of cheeks and forehead was yielding slowly to the quickening of the arteries caused by the recent struggle. At last he looked at Power, and may have been surprised by the discovery that his adversary, though standing within a yard of him, obviously disregarded his presence, and was, in fact, staring through a window at the far horizon of the blue Atlantic. For the first time he was aware of an expression in Power's face that was baffling, almost unnerving. Suffering, pity, sympathy, well-doing--these essentials had never found lodgment in his own nature, and their legible imprint on another's features was foreign to his eyes. He was wholly self-centered, self-contained. To his material mind men and women were mere elements in the alchemy of gold-making; yet here stood one who had never sought the gross treasures which earth seemed to delight in showering on him. And he could win what Marten had never won--love. That thought rankled. Already Nancy was yielding to his influence. Unless---- He replaced the pistol in the drawer where it was kept, ever within reach--he had ruined opponents by the score, and some were vengeful. The movement awoke Power from a species of trance, and their eyes met. "You win," said Marten laconically. Power sat down again. The simplicity of his self-effacement almost bewildered the other, on whom the knowledge was forced that, had he raised and pointed the death-dealing weapon, his enemy would have disregarded him. "I want to ask you a few questions," he continued bruskly. "I suppose you and I can afford now to tell each other the naked truth. Why are you raising all this commotion after twenty years?" "I am only fulfilling the mandate given in--in your wife's last letter." "My wife. You admit, then, that she _was_ my wife?" Power did not answer, and Marten tingled with the quick suspicion that he was opening up the very line of inquiry in which he was most vulnerable. "Anyhow, let us endeavor to forget what happened twenty years ago," he went on, affecting a generosity of sentiment he was far from feeling. "What I wish to understand is this--how do you reconcile your regret, or repentance, or whatever you choose to call it, for bygone deeds, with your attempt now to come between me and my daughter. Yes, damn you, whatever you may say or do, you cannot rob me of the nineteen years of affection which at least one person in the world has given me!" Power passed unheeded that sudden flame of passionate resentment.