that."

He wanted to say that Tom Kirkwood was the malignant agent in the
situation, but he shrank from mentioning the lawyer. He wished Phil
would come down and terminate an interview that was becoming
increasingly disagreeable.

"What do you consider those Sycamore bonds worth, Mr. Holton?"

"Par!" he ejaculated.

"You really think so?"

"My word of honor! There's not a better 'buy' in the American market,"
he affirmed solemnly.

"You can dispose of them at full face value?" she queried, arching her
brows, her eyes full of wonder.

"I'll pay that for any you have, Mrs. Holton," he threw out at a
venture, feeling that it was a "safe" play.

"Then I have twenty of them, and I believe I'll sell. You may bring me a
check to-morrow. I shall have the bonds here at, say, three o'clock."

She glanced carelessly at the watch on her wrist, and murmured something
about Phil's delay. The bond transaction was concluded, so far as she
was concerned; she spoke now of the reported illness of the Czar. She
had visited St. Petersburg and appeared to be conversant with Russian
politics.

It was in Charles's mind that his Uncle Jack would never have dropped a
woman who owned twenty bonds that were worth even a dime apiece. He was
confident of some trick. Phil's mother had led him into ambush, and was
now enjoying his discomfiture. His face reddened with anger. She knew
perfectly well that he could not fulfill the commission he had been
trapped into undertaking. His pride was stung, and his humiliation was
deepened by her perfect tranquillity. Phil's delay had been by
connivance, to give time for this encounter. His Uncle Jack had been
right: the woman belonged to the Devil's household.

His ordeal had lasted only twenty minutes, though it had seemed an hour.
Phil's tardiness was due to the fact that she had returned from a tea
just as dinner was announced, and she had gone to the table without
changing her gown. She had, of course, no idea of what had occurred when
she appeared before them, and met with her habitual cheeriness her
mother's chaffing rebuke for her dallying.

"Sorry! But it's only eight, and the lecturer dined with Mrs. King, who
never hurries. Hope you two haven't bored each other!"

She thrust out her white-sheathed arm for her mother's help with the
buttons. Charles, still smarting, drew on his gloves with an effort at
composure. His good looks were emphasized by his evening clothes, and a
glimpse he c