nearly five minutes, with her eyes closed. Then she opened them, and looked at her companion.
“Mr. Aynesworth,” she said, “are you so poor that you must serve a man like that?”
He shook his head.
“It is not poverty,” he answered. “I knew his history, and I am interested in him!”
“You write novels, don’t you?” she asked.
“I try,” he answered. “His story fascinated me. He stands today in a unique position to life. I want to see how he will come out of it.”
“You knew his story—the truth?”
“Everything,” he answered. “I heard it from a journalist who was in court, his only friend, the only man who knew.”
“Where is he now?”
“On his way to Japan.”
She drew a little breath between her teeth.
“There were rumors,” she said. “It was hard for me at first, but I lived them down. I was very young then. I ought not to have accepted his sacrifice. I wish to heaven I had not. I wish that I had faced the scandal then. It is worse to be in the power of a man like this today! Mr. Aynesworth!”
“Lady Ruth!”
“Do you think that he has the right to keep those letters?”
“I cannot answer that question.”
“Will you be my friend?”
“So far as I can—in accordance with my obligations to my employer!”
She tried him no further then, but rose and walked slowly out of the room. He found her maid, and saw them to their carriage. Then he returned to the sitting room. Wingrave was smoking a cigarette.
“I am trying the humanizing influence,” he remarked. “Got rid of her ladyship?”
“Lady Ruth has just gone,” Aynesworth answered.
“Have you promised to steal the letters yet?” he inquired.
“Not yet!”
“Her dainty ladyship has not bid high enough, I suppose,” he continued. “Don’t be afraid to open your mouth. There’s another woman there besides the Lady Ruth Barrington, who opens bazaars, and patronizes charity, and entertains Royalty. Ask what you want and she’ll pay!”
“What a brute you are!” Aynesworth exclaimed involuntarily.
“Of course I am,” he admitted. “I know that. But whose fault is it? It isn’t mine. I’ve lived the life of a brute creature for ten years. You don’t abuse a one-legged man, poor devil. I’ve had other things amputated. I was like you once. It seemed all right to me to go under to save a woman’s honor. You never have. Therefore, I say you’ve no right to call me a brute. Personally, I don’t object. It is simply a matter of equity.”
“I admit it,” Aynesworth declared. “You are acting like a brute.”
“Precisely. I didn’t make myself what I am. Prison did it. Go and try ten years yourself, and you’ll find you will have to grope about for your fine emotions. Are you coming to America with me?”
“I suppose so,” Aynesworth answered. “When do we start?”
“Saturday week.”
“Sport west, or civilization east?”
“Both,” Wingrave answered. “Here is a list of the kit which we shall require. Add yourself the things which I have forgotten. I pay for both!”
“Very good of you,” Aynesworth answered.
“Not at all. I don’t suppose you’d come without. Can you shoot?”
“A bit,” he admitted.
“Be particular about the rifles. I can take you to a little corner in Canada where the bears don’t stand on ceremony. Put everything in hand, and be ready to come down to Cornwall with me on Monday.”
“Cornwall!” Aynesworth exclaimed. “What on earth are we going to do in Cornwall?”
“I have an estate there, the home of my ancestors, which I am going to sell. I am the last of the Setons, fortunately, and I am going to smash the family tree, sell the heirlooms, and burn the family records!”
“I shouldn’t if I were you,” Aynesworth said quietly. “You are a young man yet. You may come back to your own!”
“Meaning?”
“You may smoke enough cigarettes to become actually humanized! One can never tell! I have known men proclaim themselves cynics for life, who have been making idiots of themselves with their own children in five years.”
Wingrave nodded gravely.
“True enough,” he answered. “But the one thing which no man can mistake is death. Listen, and I will quote some poetry to you. I think—it is something like this:—
“ ‘The rivers of ice may melt, and the mountains crumble into dust, but the heart of a dead man is like the seed plot unsown. Green grass shall not sprout there, nor flowers blossom, nor shall all the ages of eternity show there any sign of life.’ ”
He spoke as though he had been reading from a child’s Primer. When he had finished, he replaced his cigarette between his teeth.
“I am a dead man,” he said calmly. “Dead as the wildest seed plot in God’s most forgotten acre!”
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