in rage, his fingers opened and shut in abandonment of temper.

"Why have I two such sons!" he exclaimed. "I've not been bad. I've
squeezed a few; I've struck here and there; I've mauled my enemies, but
I've been good to my own. Why can't I run square with my own family?" He
was purple to the roots of his hair.

Savagery possessed him. Life was testing him to the nth degree. "I've
been a good father, and a good husband! Why am I treated like this?"

She watched him silently. Presently, however, the storm seemed to pass.
He appeared to gain control of himself.

"You want me to have in Carnac?" he asked, with a little fleck of foam
at the corners of his mouth.

"If you could have Fabian back," she remarked, "but you can't! It's been
coming for a long time. He's got your I.O.U. and he won't return; but
Carnac's got plenty of stuff in him. He never was afraid of anything or
anybody, and if he took a notion, he could do this business as well
as yourself by and by. It's all a chance, but if he comes in he'll put
everything else aside."

"Where is he?" the old man asked. "He's with his mother at your home."

The old man took his hat from the window-sill. At that moment a clerk
appeared with some papers. "What have you got there?" asked Grier
sharply. "The Belloc account for the trouble on the river," answered the
clerk.

"Give it me," Grier said, and he waved the clerk away. Then he glanced
at the account, and a grim smile passed over his face. "They can't have
all they want, and they won't get it. Are you coming with me?" he asked
of the girl, with a set look in his eyes. "No. I'm going back to my
sister," she answered.

"If he leaves me--if he joins Belloc!" the old man muttered, and again
his face flushed.

A few moments afterwards the girl watched him till he disappeared up the
hill.

"I don't believe Carnac will do it," she said to herself. "He's got the
sense, the brains, and the energy; but he won't do it."

She heard a voice behind her, and turned. It was the deformed but potent
Denzil. He was greyer now. His head, a little to one side, seemed sunk
in his square shoulders, but his eyes were bright.

"It's all a bad scrape--that about Fabian Grier," he said. "You can't
ever tell about such things, how they'll go--but no, bagosh!"

CHAPTER IV. THE HOUSE ON THE HILL

John Grier's house had a porch with Corinthian pillars. Its elevation
was noble, but it was rather crudely built, and it needed its