es him in danger of losing it."

The thrust, so quietly delivered, went home. Roger bit his under lip
and was silent, his eyes glowering.

"So that's what you think of me, is it?" he said at last, sullenly.

The look in Barry's eyes softened the stern sincerity of his reply.

"What else can I think? In your place a man's first thought should
surely be to release the woman he loves from the infernal bondage which
marriage with him must inevitably mean."

"On the principle that from him who hath not shall be taken away even
that which he hath, I suppose?" gibed the bitter voice from the bed.

"No," answered Barry, with simplicity. "But just because if you love a
woman you can't possibly want to hurt her."

"And if she loved you, a woman couldn't possibly want to turn you down
because you've had the damnedest bad luck any man could have."

"But does she love you?" asked Barry. "I know--and you know--that she
does _not_. She cares for someone else."

Roger made a sudden, violent movement.

"Who is it? She has never told me who it was. I suppose it's that
confounded cad who painted her portrait--Maryon Rooke?"

Barry smile a little.

"No," he answered. "The man she loves is Peter Mallory."

"Mallory!"--in blank astonishment. Then, swiftly and with a gleam of
triumph in his eyes: "But he's married!"

"His wife has just died--out in India."

There was a long pause. Then:

"So _that's_ why you came?" sneered Roger. "Well, you can tell Nan
that she won't marry Peter Mallory with my consent. I'll never set her
free to be another man's wife"--his dangerous temper rising again.
"There's only one thing left to me in the world, and that's Nan. And
I'll have her!"

"Is that your final decision?" asked Barry. He was beginning to
recognise the hopelessness of any effort to turn or influence the man.

"Yes"--with a snarl. "Tell Nan"--derisively--"that I shall expect my
truly devoted fiancee here this afternoon."

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE GREAT HEALER

It was late in the afternoon when the Mallow car once more purred up to
the door of Trenby Hall and Nan descended from it. She was looking
very pale, her face like a delicate white cameo beneath the shadow of
her hat, while the clinging black of her gown accentuated the slender
lines--too slender, now--of her figure. She had not yet discarded her
mourning for Lord St. John, but in any case she would have felt that
gay colours could have no part in