weapons above the board.

"No matter--since you are disposed to refuse. The money is in my hands,
as is the offer. Both are good. Both will hold good till to-morrow
morning."

Septimus Marvin gave a little exclamation of approval. He had been
sitting by the table looking from one to the other over his spectacles
with the eager smile of the listener who understands very little, and
while wishing that he understood more, is eager to put in a word of
approval or disapprobation on safe and general lines. It was quite
obvious to John Turner, who had entered the room in ignorance on this
point, that Marvin knew nothing of Barebone's heritage in France while
Miriam knew all.

"There is one point," he said, "which is perhaps scarcely worth
mentioning. The man who makes the offer is not only the most
unscrupulous, but is likely to become one of the most powerful men in
Eur--men I know. There is a reverse side to the medal. There always is
a reverse side to the good things of this world. Should you refuse his
ridiculously generous offer you will make an enemy for life--one who is
nearing that point where men stop at nothing."

Turner glanced at Miriam again. Her clean-cut features had a stony
stillness and her eyes looked obstinately at the clock. The banker moved
in his chair as if suddenly conscious that it was time to go.

"Do not," he said to Barebone, "be misled or mislead yourself into a
false estimate of the strength of your own case. The offer I make you
does not in any way indicate that you are in a strong position. It
merely shows the indolence of a man naturally open-handed, who would
always rather pay than fight."

"Especially if the money is not his own."

"Yes," admitted Turner, stolidly, "that is so. Especially if the money
is not his own. I dare say you know the weakness of your own case:
others know it too. A portrait is not much to go on. Portraits are so
easily copied; so easily changed."

He rose as he spoke and shook hands with Marvin. Then he turned to
Miriam, but he did not meet her glance. Last of all he shook hands with
Barebone.

"Sleep on it," he said. "Nothing like sleeping on a question. I am
staying at 'The Black Sailor.' See you to-morrow."

He had come, had transacted his business and gone, all in less than an
hour, with an extraordinary leisureliness almost amounting to indolence.
He had lounged into the house, and now he departed without haste or
explanation. Never hurry, never expla