nd the noises in the house--the banging of doors
and the jangling of keys and the hurrying of feet in the corridors--were
hushed. Jethro took no thought of these or of time, and sat gazing at the
stars in the depths of the sky above the capital dome until a shadow
emerged from the black mass of the trees opposite and crossed the street.
In a few minutes there were footsteps in the corridor,--stealthy
footsteps--and a knock on the door. Jethro got up and opened it, and
closed it again and locked it. Then he turned up the gas.

"S-sit down," he said, and nodded his head toward the chair by the table.

Isaac Worthington laid his silk hat on the table, and sat down. He looked
very haggard and worn in that light, very unlike the first citizen who
had entered Brampton in triumph on his return from the West not many
months before. The long strain of a long fight, in which he had risked
much for which he had labored a life to gain, had told on him, and there
were crow's-feet at the corners of, his eyes, and dark circles under
them. Isaac Worthington had never lost before, and to destroy the fruits
of such a man's ambition is to destroy the man. He was not as young as he
had once been. But now, in the very hour of defeat, hope had rekindled
the fire in the eyes and brought back the peculiar, tight-lipped, mocking
smile to the mouth. An hour ago, when he had been pacing Alexander
Duncan's library, the eyes and the mouth had been different.

Long habit asserts itself at the strangest moments. Jethro Bass took his
seat by the window, and remained silent. The clock tolled the half-hour
after midnight.

"You wanted to see me," said Mr. Worthington, finally.

Jethro nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"I suppose," said Mr. Worthington, slowly, "I suppose you are ready to
sell out." He found it a little difficult to control his voice.

"Yes," answered Jethro, "r-ready to sell out."

Mr. Worthington was somewhat taken aback by this simple admission. He
glanced at Jethro sitting motionless by the window, and in his heart he
feared him: he had come into that room when the gas was low, afraid.
Although he would not confess it to himself, he had been in fear of
Jethro Bass all his life, and his fear had been greater than ever since
the March day when Jethro had left Coniston. And could he have known,
now, the fires of hatred burning in Jethro's breast, Isaac Worthington
would have been in terror indeed.

"What have you got to sell?" he