Richmond’s policy in dealing with his fellow-men was to strike his heaviest blow first--that is, he blew up the intrenchments before he charged the intrenched. He laughed in that gentle, light way which is as the soft tap of the nettle leaf that instantly produces a swelling and a smarting. “So, this is why you’ve been sneaking round these last three days, trying to dispose of the stocks I let you in on.” Peter grew sickly pale. “I’ve--I’ve been--arranging my affairs somewhat,” mumbled he. Richmond laughed again--cheerily, genially. “This world,” said he, “is peopled by fools. But the biggest fool of all is the fellow who thinks he is a little less of a fool than the others. That seems to fit you, my boy. You must think I was whelped only yesterday. Do you suppose I trust people because I take ’em in with me? Why, I’d have been in the jail or the poorhouse long ago if I had. When I let you in I locked the door behind you. I always do.” Peter’s hands were trembling so that they shook the stick round which he had them clasped. “You think you’ve sold out,” continued Richmond. “Instead, you’ll find to-morrow that you still have all you bought through me--and that you’ve got to buy as much more.” “But I can’t do it,” pleaded Vanderkief--and his voice was not much better than a whine. “I’ve got no ready money. I’d have to sell real estate that’s been in the family from the beginning.” “I’ll take it on mortgage,” said Richmond reassuringly. “So, you needn’t worry about that, my boy.” “But we never _mortgage_!” cried Peter. His face became shiny with sweat. “No, indeed--we _never_ mortgage, Mr. Richmond. I’m much obliged, but _we_ never mortgage.” “Got to begin some time,” said Richmond. And seeing that his prospective son-in-law was in the proper state of flabbiness, he went back to the point. “Now--as to the trouble between you and Beatrice. Please explain it. Let’s see just what it is.” “She cares nothing about me.” “Who says so?” “She does.” “When?” “When we became engaged.” “Yet you proposed and she accepted.” Peter squirmed. “But I didn’t know she cared about--about some one else.” “Who?” “An--an artist.” “Who?” “I met him at your house.” Peter’s anger was rising, as will the anger of the worst frightened boy in the world if the whipping is kept up long enough. “I might have known,” he cried. “I did suspect, the day I saw him painting her. But it seemed absurd that a girl of her position----” “It _is_ absurd,” cut in Richmond. “Who told you this story?” Peter did not reply. “My daughter?” “No. I’m not at all likely to----” “Then it was Allie Kinnear,” said Richmond, and Peter guiltily felt as if the information had been wrenched from him. “So, _she’s_ trying to marry you?” “Mr. Richmond,” said Peter with the stiffness of an insulted man of ancient lineage, “I have the highest esteem for Miss----”