“What do you know of my real interest?” he went on as if he had not heard her. “I know enough for my purpose--which is to offer you a handsome condition. I think it’s not I who have protected the happy understanding that you call by so ugly a name; it’s the happy understanding that has put me”--she gained confidence--“well, in a position. Do drive after them, if you like--but catch up with them only to forgive them. If you’ll do that, I’ll pay your price.” The particular air with which, a minute after Mrs. Gracedew had spoken these words, Mr. Prodmore achieved a transfer of his attention to the inside of his hat--this special shade of majesty would have taxed the descriptive resources of the most accomplished reporter. It is none the less certain that he appeared for some time absorbed in that receptacle--appeared at last to breathe into it hard. “What do you call my price?” “Why, the sum you just mentioned--fifty thousand!” Mrs. Gracedew feverishly quavered. He looked at her as if stupefied. “_That’s_ not my price--and it never for a moment was!” If derision can be dry, Mr. Prodmore’s was of the driest. “Besides,” he rang out, “my price is up!” She caught it with a long wail. “Up?” Oh, he let her have it now! “Seventy thousand.” She turned away overwhelmed, but still with voice for her despair. “Oh, deary me!” Mr. Prodmore was already at the door, from which he launched his ultimatum. “It’s to take or to leave!” She would have had to leave it, perhaps, had not something happened at this moment to nerve her for the effort of staying him with a quick motion. Captain Yule had come into sight on the staircase and, after just faltering at what he himself saw, had marched resolutely enough down. She watched him arrive--watched him with an attention that visibly and responsively excited his own; after which she passed nearer to their companion. “Seventy thousand, then!”--it gleamed between them, in her muffled hiss, as if she had planted a dagger. Mr. Prodmore, to do him justice, took his wound in front. “Seventy thousand--done!” And, without another look at Yule, he was presently heard to bang the outer door after him for a sign. VIII The young man, meanwhile, had approached in surprise. “He’s gone? I’ve been looking for him!” Mrs. Gracedew was out of breath; there was a disturbed whiteness of bosom in her which needed time to subside and which she might have appeared to retreat before him on purpose to veil. “I don’t think, you know, that you need him--now.” Clement Yule was mystified. “Now?” She recovered herself enough to explain--made an effort at least to be plausible. “I mean that--if you don’t mind--you must deal with _me_. I’ve arranged with Mr. Prodmore to take it over.” Oh, he gave her no help! “Take what over?” She looked all about as if not quite thinking what it could be called; at last, however, she offered with a smile a sort of substitute for a name. “Why, your debt.”