“What’s the sense of talking, Leverich? Proof or no, I tell you, I can’t use it. This isn’t any funny business, you can see that. Don’t you suppose, if I could use it, that I would? But there are some things a man can’t do—at any rate, _I_ can’t. And that settles it.” Heaven knows he had gone over the matter insistently enough in the last few days, since the combination had been unwillingly given into his hands, but always with the foregone conclusion. The devil—granting that there is one,—doesn’t, as a rule, actively try to tempt us to evil—he simply confuses us, so that we are kept from using our reason. But this time he had no field for action. To use secret information against Cater, that could never have been had but for Cater’s kindness to him in helping him to those bars in time of need, was first, last, and every time impossible to Justin Alexander. It was vain for argument to suggest that this very deed of kindness had worked his disaster—the fact remained the same. He might do other things, he might do worse things—this thing he could not do, not though the refusal worked his own ruin, not though Cater’s ruin with Hardanger was insured anyway, but too late for the typometer to profit by it. Even if the typometer could by some means keep afloat until that day arrived, it would take a couple of years for such a timing-machine to regain its prestige in a foreign country. Justin had no excess of sentiment, no quixotic impulse urged him to go and tell Cater what he had learned. It was Cater’s business to look after his end of the game, if the price of material or labor was too cheap, he must know that there was something wrong with it. The stream of Justin’s mind ran clear in spite of that feeling of sharp practice toward himself—nay, because of it; it was impossible to use the weapon that a former kindness had placed in his hand. He looked at Leverich now with an expression which the latter quieted himself to meet. This was a situation, not for bluster and rage, but to be competently grappled with.