“You are talking rank folly,” said Roderick, leaning against the jamb of the window, his hands in his dressing-gown pockets. “Mr. Lanyon as my solicitor sold out certain of my investments and sent me a cheque for the total amount.” “A cheque to which there is no counterfoil, taken from a cheque-book in use three years ago?” Sylvester laughed harshly and buttoned his overcoat, which he had opened so as to get at the cheque. Roderick grew white and passed his hand across his forehead. There was a moment's silence. “As a matter of elementary justice,” said Sylvester, “I came here first for your explanation. As you can give none, I will now put the matter in the hands of the police, and in an hour or two there will be a warrant out for your arrest.” He moved towards the door. Roderick staggered away from the window and drew his hand hard across his face in a gesture of utter weariness. The strain of the past week had been too much. Always thriftless and reckless in money matters, he had hitherto stopped short of unredeemed rascality. The burden of a crime had crushed his self-assurance. “Stop a moment,” he said hoarsely. “There are other considerations.” “I have them in view,” replied Sylvester, icily. He turned again. Roderick hurriedly interposed himself between him and the door. “For God's sake, man, think of what you are doing! I don't deny it. There! I can't. It is more than I can bear. I have been in hell for the past week, devoured alive, with the flames licking my soul. I was driven to it, to save myself from disgrace. I was desperate. I would have replaced the money. By Heaven! I would. It was my only chance to avert sudden crash and to marry the woman I love.” “You love!” sneered Sylvester. “Yes, the woman I love and crave and worship, for whose sake I'd commit a thousand crimes. I was pushed hard, I tell you, with my back against the wall. I had to. Go back to Ayresford and tell your father I'll repay it,--every penny. I swear to God I will.” “With Miss Defries's money. Rob Peter to pay Paul. Let me pass.” “You are going to have me arrested?” “Certainly.” “But--Sylvester--good God!” cried Roderick, in incoherent agony. “Think of what it means--our old friendship--we were young together--we have grown old together--years ago, when you too were marrying a sweet woman, I stood by your side--” “Your damned hand has been in every tragedy of my life,” exclaimed Sylvester, kindled into a sudden flame of anger. “And a damned woman's! If it had not been for a woman, you would not have killed my father.” In the midst of his frantic anxiety, it was suddenly revealed to Roderick that in alluding to Sylvester's marriage he had touched the man's hidden wound. He hastened to repair his blunder.