instinctively at his letter to Bob Hendricks,
and as if to shield what he was going to say, put a paper over the
page, and then the seriousness of the situation came over him. "You
know women; cheer up, man--try again. Stick to it--you'll win,"
cried Barclay. The fool might go for so small a reason. It was no time
for ribaldry. "Let me tell you something," he went on. His eyes opened
again with a steady ruthless purpose in them, that the man before him
was too intent on his own pose to see. Barclay put a weight upon the
white sheet of paper that he had spread over his letter to Bob
Hendricks and then went on. "Say, Brownwell, let me tell you
something. This town is right in the balance; you can help." Something
seemed to hold Barclay back, but he took the plunge. "You can stay
here and help. We need men like you." Then he took a blind shot in the
dark before going on--perhaps to give himself another chance. "Have
you got any more of that buried money--I mean more than you gave
General Hendricks--the kind that you dug up after the war and
scratched the mould off the eagles?"

Brownwell flushed and replied, as he put one hand in his coat and the
other, with his stick and hat and gloves, behind him: "That is my
affair, sir. However, I will say that I have."

"I thought so," retorted Barclay. "Now look here, bring it to the
Ridge. Here's the place to invest it and now's the everlasting time.
You jump in here and help us out, help build up the town, and there's
nothing too good for you." Barclay was ready for it now. He did not
flinch, but went on: "Also here's your chance to help Colonel
Culpepper. He's to be closed out, and ten thousand would save him. You
know the kind of a man the colonel is. Stay with the game, Mr. Man,
stay with the game." He saw Brownwell's eyes twitch. Barclay knew he
had won. He added slowly, "You understand?"

Brownwell smiled benignly. Barclay looked nervously at the unfinished
letter on the table. Brownwell waved his arms again dramatically, and
replied: "Ah, thank you--thank you. I shall play my hand out--and
hearts are trumps--are they not?" And he went out almost dancing for
joy.

When the man was gone Barclay shuddered; his contempt for Brownwell
was one of the things he prided himself on, and the intrigue revolted
him. He stood a moment at the window looking into the street absently.
He became conscious that some one was smiling at him on the crossing
below. Then automatically he heard