e black mass of the trees opposite
and crossed the street. In a few minutes there were footsteps in the
corridor,--stealthy footsteps--and a knock on the door. Jethro got up
and opened it, and closed it again and locked it. Then he turned up the
gas.

"S-sit down," he said, and nodded his head toward the chair by the
table.

Isaac Worthington laid his silk hat on the table, and sat down. He
looked very haggard and worn in that light, very unlike the first
citizen who had entered Brampton in triumph on his return from the West
not many months before. The long strain of a long fight, in which he had
risked much for which he had labored a life to gain, had told on him,
and there were crow's-feet at the corners of, his eyes, and dark circles
under them. Isaac Worthington had never lost before, and to destroy the
fruits of such a man's ambition is to destroy the man. He was not as
young as he had once been. But now, in the very hour of defeat, hope
had rekindled the fire in the eyes and brought back the peculiar,
tight-lipped, mocking smile to the mouth. An hour ago, when he had
been pacing Alexander Duncan's library, the eyes and the mouth had been
different.

Long habit asserts itself at the strangest moments. Jethro Bass took his
seat by the window, and remained silent. The clock tolled the half-hour
after midnight.

"You wanted to see me," said Mr. Worthington, finally.

Jethro nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"I suppose," said Mr. Worthington, slowly, "I suppose you are ready to
sell out." He found it a little difficult to control his voice.

"Yes," answered Jethro, "r-ready to sell out."

Mr. Worthington was somewhat taken aback by this simple admission. He
glanced at Jethro sitting motionless by the window, and in his heart
he feared him: he had come into that room when the gas was low, afraid.
Although he would not confess it to himself, he had been in fear of
Jethro Bass all his life, and his fear had been greater than ever since
the March day when Jethro had left Coniston. And could he have known,
now, the fires of hatred burning in Jethro's breast, Isaac Worthington
would have been in terror indeed.

"What have you got to sell?" he demanded sharply.

"G-guess you know, or you wouldn't have come here."

"What proof have I that you have it to sell?"

Jethro looked at him for an instant.

"M-my word," he said.

Isaac Worthington was silent for a while: he was striving to calm
himself, for an indefina