“I want you--through your broker or banker or however you please--I want you to buy those bonds at what their market price was before the road went into the hands of a receiver. I think it will take about fifty thousand dollars. But buy them if it costs a hundred thousand. I can’t go higher than that.” Hesitatingly she lifted her eyes. Peter was sitting back in his chair regarding her with an expression it makes any human being proud to have caused in another’s face. A little color came into the girl’s cheeks and into her eyes a look of gratitude for the compliment and of pleasure in it. She went on: “You understand, no one must know--must have the ghost of a suspicion. Especially Roger Wade. But no one--no one.” Peter busied himself at lighting the cigarette he selected with care from the dozen in the huge gold case he carried in the inside pocket of his sack coat. “Your agent,” continued the girl, as if laying before him a carefully thought-out plan, “can say he represents some men who are getting ready to fight to get control of the road.” “I didn’t know you knew anything about business,” said Peter huskily, just for something to say. “A little,” said Beatrice, who, in fact, was her father’s own daughter--though, of course, she was not foolish enough to have failed to use to its uttermost value the favorite feminine pretense of being hopelessly incapable when it came to matters like business. “Will you do it?” “How much’ll you have left?” said Peter. “Plenty,” Beatrice assured him. “Plenty.” “I know better.” She made an impatient gesture. “I’ll have more than enough to carry out my plans.” “There’s no reason on earth why you should do this,” protested he. “You----” “Drop it, Peter,” said she with a touch of her old imperiousness--of her father’s intolerance of objection from inferior minds. “I know what I’m about. Roger Wade is being stripped of all he has through no fault of his--through my folly. I got him into the scrape--a scrape he wanted to have nothing to do with. It’s up to me to get him out.” “He had no business to come fooling round you!” “He didn’t, Peter,” said the girl with convincing candor. “He-- I see I’ve got to tell you. I proposed to him, and he refused me.” “_You_ did--_that_!” Beatrice blushed and laughed. “Oh, I made an idiot of myself. I thought he was hanging back because he was awed--because father was rich--and all that.” Peter narrowed his eyelids and screwed up his mouth in an attempt to look acute. “He’s working some sly dodge. Mark my word, some sly dodge.” And he wagged his head wisely. “I wish he were!” sighed Beatrice. “Because he liked me I thought he--cared. You see, Peter, I’m telling you everything. Will you do what I ask?” Peter settled deeper in his chair. “I’d like to--I want to--but--” At the beginnings of disappointment and disdain in her expression he straightened, flushed. “Yes, by gad, I _will_ do it!” “Why did you hesitate?” “I didn’t.”