Sunset Bryan let his arm drop from her shoulder in astonishment. Then he stepped back a few paces, studying her face as she mopped it with her moistened handkerchief. She would never drink brandy again, was the idle and inconsequential thought that sped through her unstable mind. For it was not she herself that was speaking and acting; it was, she felt, some irresponsible and newly unleashed spirit within her. “Why’d you do it?” he demanded. “Because—because Clara—that’s Clara Shirley, his rider’s sister—told me the Duke of Kendall was fixed to win on a long shot this afternoon!” “Now, look here—are you, or are you not, a newspaper woman?” “No, I’m not,” she shrilled out. “I lied, just to get in to see you!” “And you’ve put your money on this Duke of Kendall?” “Every cent I own—every cent! If I lose it—oh—It will kill me to lose it!” “But what the devil did you come here for?” “Because I am desperate! I’ve—I’ve—” “Now, don’t spoil those lovely eyes by crying this way, honey-girl! What would I get if I told you something about that race this afternoon?” “Oh, I’d give you anything!” she cried, almost drunkenly, snatching some belated hope from the change in his tone. “Do you mean that?” he demanded suddenly, stepping back and looking at her from under his shaggy brows. “No—no, not that,” she gasped quickly, in terror, for then, and then only, did she catch an inkling of his meaning. She felt that she had floundered into a quagmire of pollution, and that the more fiercely she struggled and fought, the more stained with its tainted waters she was destined to remain. She was afraid to look up at the crafty, sunburnt, animal-like face before her, with its wrinkles about the heavy line of the mouth, and its minutely intersecting crow’s-feet in the corners of the shrewd and squinting eyes. She felt that the very air of life was being walled and held away from her. Still another fierce longing for escape took hold of her, and she shuddered a little as she fought and battled against it. She seemed without the strength to speak, and could only shake her head and try not to shrink away from him. “Still afraid of me, eh?” he asked, as he lifted her drooping head brazenly, with his forefinger under her chin. He studied her tear-stained, colorless face for a minute or two, and then he went on: “Well, I’m not so rotten as I might be! Here’s a tip for you, little girl! The Duke of Kendall is goin’ to come in on a long shot and what’s more, he’s goin’ to run on odds of fifty to one!” “You’re certain of it?” she gasped. “Dead sure of it, between you and me! There’s a gang down at the Rossmore’d cover this floor with gold just to know that tip!” “Then we _can_ win! It’s _not_ too late!” she broke out fervently, forgetting where she stood, forgetting the man before her. She was already reaching up to draw down her veil, with a glance over her shoulder at the door. “Am I goin’ to see you again?” he still wheedled.