d her--it was the Adventurer. That was the Adventurer
standing in there now, side face to her, in Nicky Viner's inner room!

X. ON THE BRINK

Rhoda Gray moved quietly, inch by inch, along the side of the wall to
gain a point of vantage more nearly opposite the lighted doorway. And
then she stopped again. She could see quite clearly now--that is, there
was nothing now to obstruct her view; but the light was miserable and
poor, and the single gas-jet that wheezed and flickered did little more
than disperse the shadows from its immediate neighborhood in that inner
room. But she could see enough--she could see the bent and ill-clad
figure of Nicky Viner, as she remembered him, an old, gray-bearded man,
wringing his hands in groveling misery, while the mumbling voice, now
whining and pleading, now servile, now plucking up courage to indulge
in abuse, kept on without even, it seemed, a pause for breath. And she
could see the Adventurer, quite unmoved, quite debonair, a curiously
patient smile on his face, standing there, much nearer to her, his right
hand in the side pocket of his coat, a somewhat significant habit of
his, his left hand holding a sheaf of folded, legal-looking documents.

And then she heard the Adventurer speak.

"What a flow of words!" said the Adventurer, in a bored voice. "You will
forgive me, my dear Mr. Viner, if I appear to be facetious, which I am
not--but money talks."

"You are a thief, a robber!" The old gray-bearded figure rocked on its
feet and kept wringing its hands. "Get out of here! Get out! Do you
hear? Get out! You come to steal from a poor old man, and--"

"Must we go all over that again?" interrupted the Adventurer wearily.
"I have not come to steal anything; I have simply come to sell you these
papers, which I am quite sure, once you control yourself and give the
matter a little calm consideration, you are really most anxious to
buy--at any price.

"It's a lie!" the other croaked hoarsely. "Those papers are a lie! I
am innocent. And I haven't got any money. None! I haven't any. I am
poor--an old man--and poor."

Rhoda Gray felt the blood flush hotly to her cheeks. Somehow she could
feel no sympathy for that cringing figure in there; but she felt a hot
resentment toward that dapper, immaculately dressed and self-possessed
young man, who stood there, silently now, tapping the papers with
provoking coolness against the edge of the plain deal table in front of
him. And somehow