“Be that as it may,” snapped Richmond, “I want you to know that I will never take her back--_never!_--until I am sure she has given you up. You may stake your life on that, sir. When I put my hand to the plough I do not turn back.” Roger leaned toward the unhappy man distracted by his own torturings of himself. “Will you believe me, sir,” said he earnestly, “when I say I am deeply sorry that I have been the innocent cause of a breach between you and your daughter. Perhaps it is just as well that she has gotten away from you. It may result in her developing into the really fine person God intended her to be. Still, I wish to do all I can to heal the breach.” “That sounds like a man, Mr. Wade!” cried Richmond, all eagerness. “I’ve been putting up with you this afternoon,” pursued Roger, apparently not much impressed by this certificate of his virtue, “because I hoped to do something toward ending the quarrel between you two.” “You can end it,” interrupted Richmond. “You can end it at once.” “Tell me how, and I’ll do it,” said Roger. “She believes you wish to marry her.” “I am confident she never told you anything like that.” “She thinks you’re afraid to marry her unless she brought the money to keep her in the style she’s been used to.” “Impossible,” said Roger. “She tells me you refused her. But she still hopes.” Roger had become red and awkward. “Your daughter is something of a coquette,” he stammered. “But I assure you you are wrong in thinking she-- It’s impossible for me to discuss this.” He rose impatiently. “Your daughter does not wish to marry me. I do not wish to marry her. That’s the whole story, sir. I must ask you to let me continue my work.” “If you _mean_ that,” urged Richmond, “you will go to her and tell her so. She’s at the Wolcott--in New York City. You will tell her you do not love her and would not marry her--and she’ll come home.” The father’s voice had grown hoarse and quavering, and in his face there was a piteous humility and wretchedness--such an expression as only a dethroned tyrant can have. “If you knew how her conduct is making me suffer, Mr. Wade, you’d not hesitate to do me--and her--this favor.” That last word of abasement came in little more than a whisper. Roger seemed to be debating. “You must realize she is not a fit wife for you--she, brought up to a life of fashion and luxury. And she will never have a cent from me--not a cent!” Roger had not been listening. “Can’t do it,” he now said. “Sorry, but I can’t.” “You wish to marry her!” cried Richmond in the frenzy of impotence struggling at its bonds. “You hope!”