oiselessly opened the door into the main hall, closed it softly behind
him and took his stand half way to the library door. He saw nothing, but
he heard all.

For a moment there was silence in the room; then Aurora spoke in a dull
strained voice:

"I don't know what you mean--I haven't had any message, and--and"--she
swallowed hard--"nothing is final--nothing--not yet--that's why I've
come. You must help me, Almeda--help me to save Champney; there is no
one else in our family I can call upon or who can do it--and there is a
chance--"

"What chance?"

"The chance to save him from--from imprisonment--from a living death--"

"Has he been taken?"

"Taken!"--she swayed back from the table, clutching convulsively the
edge to preserve her balance--"don't--don't, Almeda; it will kill me. I
am afraid for him--afraid--don't you understand?--Help me--let me have
the money, the amount that will save my son--free him--"

She swayed back towards the table and leaned heavily upon it, as fearing
to lose her hold lest she should sink to her knees. Mrs. Champney was
recovering in a measure from the first excitement consequent upon the
shock of seeing the woman she hated standing so suddenly in her
presence. She spoke with cutting sarcasm:

"What amount, may I inquire, do you deem necessary for the present to
insure prospective freedom for your son?"

"You know well enough, Almeda; I must have eighty thousand at least."

Mrs. Champney laughed aloud--the same mocking laugh of a miserable old
age that had raised Octavius Buzzby's anger to a white heat of rage.
Hearing it again, the man of Maine, without fully realizing what he was
doing, turned back his cuffs. He could scarce restrain himself
sufficiently to keep his promise to Aurora.

"Eighty thousand?--hm--m; between you and Octavius Buzzby there would be
precious little left either at Champ-au-Haut or of it." She turned in
her chair in order to look squarely up into the face of the woman on the
opposite side of the table. "And you expect me to impoverish myself for
the sake of Champney Googe?"

"It wouldn't impoverish you--you have your father's property and more
too; he is of your own blood--why not?"

"Why not?" she repeated and laughed out again in her scorn; "why should
I, answer me that?"

"He is your brother, Warren Googe's son--don't make me say any more,
Almeda Champney; you know that nothing but this, nothing on earth--could
have brought me here to ask anythin