appreciate it as sincerely as I do yours, because you must have
shown that you didn't want him to use the letter, though I'm inclined
to think your motives were rather mixed; one could scarcely expect them
all to be purely benevolent."

Sylvia smiled. He was keen-witted and she found something amusing in
the ironical good-humor which often characterized him.

"Anyhow," he continued, "you're a staunch and capable ally, and as that
gives you a claim on me, you won't find me reluctant to do my part
whenever the time comes."

Then Mrs. Lansing came in, and on the whole Sylvia was glad of the
interruption. Herbert's remarks were now and then unpleasantly
suggestive. He had called her his ally, but she felt more like his
accomplice, which was much less flattering.

CHAPTER XIX

AN OPPOSITION MOVE

It was a wet and chilly night, and Singleton sat in an easy chair
beside the hearth in his city quarters with an old pipe in his hand.
The room was shabbily furnished, the hearthrug had a hole in it, the
carpet was threadbare, and Singleton's attire harmonized with his
surroundings, though the box of cigars and one or two bottles and
siphons on the table suggested that he expected visitors. The loose
Tuxedo jacket he had bought in America was marked by discolored
patches; his carpet slippers were dilapidated. His means, though long
restricted, would have warranted better accommodations; but his clothes
were comfortable and he did not think it worth while to put on anything
smarter. There was a vein of rather bitter pride in the man, and he
would not, out of deference to any other person's views, alter
conditions that suited him.

A notebook lay beside him and several bulky treatises on botany were
scattered about, but he had ceased work and was thinking. After the
shadow and silence of the tropical bush, to which he was most
accustomed, the rattle of the traffic in the wet street below was
stimulating; but his reflections were not pleasant. He had waited
patiently for another invitation to Lansing's house, which had not
arrived, and a day or two ago he had met Sylvia Marston, upon whom his
mind had steadily dwelt, in a busy street. She had bowed to him
courteously, but she had made it clear that she did not expect him to
stop and speak. It had been a bitter moment to Singleton, but he had
calmly faced the truth. He had served his purpose, and he had been
dropped. Now, however, a letter from one of the peo