d almost with the
same movement pushed his chair back sharply out of reach. "You should not
say these things to me!" he stammered forth incoherently. "I do not
deserve them. I am not--I am not what you imagine. You do not know me. I
do not know myself. I--I--" He broke off in agitation and sprang
impetuously to his feet.

With a gesture half-hopeless, half-appealing, he turned and walked to the
window, as if he could no longer bear to meet the level, grey eyes that
watched him with so kindly a confidence.

There fell a silence in the room while Mordaunt, still sitting on the
writing-table, deliberately finished his cigarette. That done, he spoke.

"Don't you think you had better tell me what is the matter?"

Bertrand jerked his shoulders convulsively; it was the only response he
made.

Mordaunt waited a few moments more. Then, "Very well," he said, without
change of tone or countenance. "We will dismiss the subject. If you
really mean to leave me, I will accept your resignation in the morning,
but not to-night. If--as I hope--you have thought better of it by then
and decide to remain, nothing further need be said. Will that satisfy
you?"

Bertrand wheeled abruptly, and stood facing him, the length of the room
intervening. His mouth worked as if he were trying to speak, but he said
nothing whatever.

Mordaunt turned without further words to the letter in his hand, and
studied it in silence. After a pause Bertrand came slowly back to the
writing-table. He had mastered his agitation, but he looked unutterably
tired.

Mordaunt moved to one side at his approach. "Sit down!" he said, without
raising his eyes.

Bertrand sat down, and began to turn his attention to sorting the letters
he had opened. Mordaunt stood motionless, reading with bent brows.

Suddenly he spoke. "There is something here I can't understand."

Bertrand glanced up. "Can I assist?"

"I don't know. Read that!" Mordaunt laid the letter before him. "I can't
account for it. I think it must be a mistake."

Bertrand took the letter and read it. It was an intimation from the bank
that in consequence of the bearer cheque for five hundred pounds
presented and cashed the week before, Mordaunt's account was overdrawn.

"What cheque can it be?" Mordaunt said. "Have you any idea?"

Bertrand shook his head. "But no! It is perhaps some charity--a gift that
you have forgotten?"

"My good fellow, I may be careless, but I'm not so damned careless as
that