s vanity reaching inward to heart and
brain through all the numbing obstacle of his drunken flesh. 'Who's
brute? Brute yourself! Tell you goin' to marry Stephen, 'cos Stephen
wants it. Stephen loves me. Loves me with all her red head! Wha're you
doin'! Wha!!'

His words merged in a lessening gurgle, for Harold had now got him by the
throat.

'Take care what you say about that lady! damn you!' he said, putting his
face close the other's with eyes that blazed. 'Don't you dare to mention
her name in such a way, or you will regret it longer than you can think.
Loves you, you swine!'

The struggle and the fierce grip on his throat sobered Leonard somewhat.
Momentarily sobbed him to that point when he could be coherent and
vindictive, though not to the point where he could think ahead. Caution,
wisdom, discretion, taste, were not for him at such a moment. Guarding
his throat with both hands in an instinctive and spasmodic manner he
answered the challenge:

'Who are you calling swine? I tell you she loves me. She ought to know.
Didn't she tell me so this very day!' Harold drew back his arm to strike
him in the face, his anger too great for words. But the other, seeing
the motion and in the sobering recognition of danger, spoke hastily:

'Keep your hair on! You know so jolly much more than I do. I tell you
that she told me this and a lot more this morning when she asked me to
marry her.'

Harold's heart grew cold as ice. There is something in the sound of a
voice speaking truthfully which a true man can recognise. Through all
Leonard's half-drunken utterings came such a ring of truth; and Harold
recognised it. He felt that his voice was weak and hollow as he spoke,
thinking it necessary to give at first a sort of official denial to such
a monstrous statement:

'Liar!'

'I'm no liar!' answered Leonard. He would like to have struck him in
answer to such a word had he felt equal to it. 'She asked me to marry
her to-day on the hill above the house, where I went to meet her by
appointment. Here! I'll prove it to you. Read this!' Whilst he was
speaking he had opened the greatcoat and was fumbling in the
breast-pocket of his coat. He produced a letter which he handed to
Harold, who took it with trembling hand. By this time the reins had
fallen slack and the horse was walking quietly. There was moonlight, but
not enough to read by. Harold bent over and lifted the driving-lamp next
to him and turn