"I don't care who it's turned over to, or what becomes of it," blustered Martin. The attorney rubbed his hands. Ah, it was a spirited drama,--quite as spirited as he had anticipated, and as interesting too. "It's pretty rough on the girl," he at last remarked casually. "The girl?" "Miss Webster." Violently Martin came to himself. The fury of his anger had until now swept every other consideration from his mind. "It will mean turning Miss Webster out of doors, of course," continued Mr. Benton impassively. "Still she's a thoroughbred, and I fancy nothing her aunt could do would surprise her. In fact, she as good as told me that, when she was at my office this morning." "She knows, then?" "Yes, I had to tell her, poor thing. I imagine, too, it hit her pretty hard, for she had been given to understand that everything was to be hers. She hasn't much in her own right; her aunt told me that." An icy hand suddenly gripped Martin's heart. He stood immovable, as if stunned. Lucy! Lucy penniless and homeless because of him! Little by little Ellen's evil scheme unfolded itself before his consciousness. He saw the cunning of the intrigue which the initial outburst of his wrath had obscured. There was more involved in his decision than his own inclinations. He was not free simply to flout the legacy and toss it angrily aside. Ellen, a Richelieu to the last, had him in a trap that wrenched and wrecked every sensibility of his nature. The more he thought about the matter, the more chaotic his impulses became. Justice battled against will; pity against vengeance; love against hate; and as the warring factors strove and tore at one another, and grappled in an anguish of suffering, from out the turmoil two forces rose unconquerable and stubbornly confronted one another,--the opposing forces of Love and Pride. There they stood, neither of them willing to yield. While Love pleaded for mercy, Pride urged the destruction of every gentler emotion and clamored for revenge. Mr. Benton was not a subtle interpreter of human nature, but in the face of the man before him he saw enough to realize the fierceness of the spiritual conflict that raged within Martin Howe's soul. It was like witnessing the writhings of a creature in torture. He did not attempt to precipitate a decision by interfering. When, however, he had been a silent spectator of the struggle so long that he perceived Martin had forgotten his very existence, he ventured to speak. "Maybe I'd better leave you to reconsider your resolution, Howe," he remarked. "I--yes--it might be better." "Perhaps after you've thought things out, you'll change your mind." Martin did not reply. The lawyer rose and took up his hat. "How long before you've got to know?" inquired Martin hoarsely. "Oh, I can give you time," answered Mr. Benton easily. "A week, say--how will that do?"