on the walk
below them, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, but leaving. Florence
was speaking; a smile was upon her lips.

Like a flash of lightning the images of fancy passed, the present
returned. At last came the solution once before suggested,--the
back-fire! Sidwell straightened, every nerve in his body tense. He
spoke--and scarcely recognized his own voice.

"There is a reason," he said, "a very adequate reason, one which
concerns another more than it does us." With a supreme effort of will
the man met the blue eyes of his opponent squarely. "It is because
Florence Baker loves me and doesn't love you. Because she would never
forgive you, never, if you did--what you think of doing now."

For an instant the listening figure remained tense, and it seemed to
Sidwell that his own pulse ceased beating; then the long sinewy body
collapsed as under a physical blow.

"God!" said a low voice. "I forgot!"

Not one of the three spectators stirred or spoke. Like sheep, they
awaited the lead of their master.

And it came full soon. Stiffly, clumsily, still in silence, Ben Blair
arose. His face was drawn and old, his step was slow and halting. Like
one walking in his sleep, he made his way to the door, took the key from
his pocket, and turned the lock. Not once did he speak or glance back.
The door closed softly, and he was gone.

Behind him for a second there was silence, inactive incredulity as at a
miracle performed; then, in a blaze of long repressed fury, Sidwell
stood beside the table. Not pausing for a glass, he raised the red
decanter to his lips and drank, drank, as though the liquor were water.

"Curse him! I'll marry that girl now if for no other reason than to get
even with him. If it's the last act of my life, I swear I'll marry
her!"

CHAPTER XXIV

THE UPPER AND THE NETHER MILLSTONES

Out on the street once more, Ben Blair looked about him as one awakening
from a dream. From the darkened arch of a convenient doorway he watched
the endless passing throng with a dull sort of wonder. He was surprised
that the city should be awake at that late hour; and stepping out into
the light he held up his watch. The hands indicated a few minutes past
ten, and in surprise he carried the timepiece to his ear. Yes, it was
running, and must be correct. He had seemed to be up there on the
eleventh floor for hours; but as a matter of fact it had been only
minutes. Practically, the whole night was yet before him.