eep breath.

"Mr. Danver, did you ever care for any one?"

Nicholas's eyes blazed suddenly.

"What the devil--" he began. "I beg your pardon. I gave you leave to
speak."

Trix waved her hand.

"I was talking about men," she said, "men pals. Were there any you ever
cared about?"

Nicholas laughed shortly.

"Your father, my dear young lady, and Richard Gray, father of the man who
has led to this interesting discussion."

"They were really your friends?" queried Trix.

"The best fellows that ever stepped," said Nicholas with unwonted
enthusiasm.

Trix nodded. Her eyes were shining. She was thinking of her aunt's
disclosure regarding this Richard Gray.

"And I suppose," she said coolly, "you rejoiced when Richard Gray lost
his money? You laughed at him for a fool?"

Nicholas stared at her.

"What on earth do you mean?" he asked. "I never knew he had lost money. I
would have given my right hand to help him if I had known."

"He did lose money," said Trix. "But that's beside the point. You'd have
helped him if you could? You wouldn't have jeered at him?"

"What do you take me for?" asked Nicholas half angrily.

Trix looked very straight at him.

"Only what you take others for, Mr. Danver."

There was a dead silence.

"Listen," said Trix suddenly. "You would have been generous to him,
because you cared for him. Do you really think you are the only generous
friend?"

Nicholas looked at her. There was a gleam of laughter in his eyes.

"It strikes me you are a very shrewd young woman," he said.

"It's only logical common sense," declared Trix stoutly.

Once more there fell a silence, a silence in which Nicholas was watching
the girl opposite to him.

"Mr. Danver, will you tell me exactly what amusement you found in all
this? What originated the idea in your mind?" Her voice was pleading.

For a moment Nicholas was silent.

"Yes," he said suddenly, "I will tell you."

It was not a long story, and to Trix it was oddly pathetic. It was the
mixture partly of regret, partly the desire of justice to be administered
to his property after his death, and partly the queer mad love of pranks
which had been the keynote of his nature, and which had stirred again
within the half-dead body. He told it all very simply, baldly almost, and
yet he could not quite hide a certain queer wistfulness underlying it,
the wistfulness of pride which has built barriers too strong for it, and
yet from which it longs to esca