ect of your visit, I confess to some surprise--as much as
the visit is worth, and no more."

The vulgarity of the insult under the man's own roof scarcely moved
Selwyn to any deeper contempt, and certainly not to anger.

"I did not come here to ask a favour of you," he said coolly--"for that
is out of the question, Mr. Ruthven. But I came to tell you that Mr.
Erroll's family has forbidden him to continue his gambling in this house
and in your company anywhere or at any time."

"Most extraordinary," murmured Ruthven, passing his ringed fingers over
his minutely shaven face--that strange face of a boy hardened by the
depravity of ages.

"So I must request you," continued Selwyn, "to refuse him the
opportunity of gambling here. Will you do it--voluntarily?"

"No."

"Then I shall use my judgment in the matter."

"And what may your judgment in the matter be?"

"I have not yet decided; for one thing I might enter a complaint with
the police that a boy is being morally and materially ruined in your
private gambling establishment."

"Is that a threat?"

"No. I will act, not threaten."

"Ah," drawled Ruthven, "I may do the same the next time my wife spends
the evening in your apartment."

"You lie," said Selwyn in a voice made low by surprise.

"Oh, no, I don't. Very chivalrous of you--quite proper for you to deny
it like a gentleman--but useless, quite useless. So the less said about
invoking the law, the better for--some people. You'll agree with me, I
dare say. . . . And now, concerning your friend, Gerald Erroll--I have
not the slightest desire to see him play cards. Whether or not he plays
is a matter perfectly indifferent to me, and you had better understand
it. But if you come here demanding that I arrange my guest-lists to suit
you, you are losing time."

Selwyn, almost stunned at Ruthven's knowledge of the episode in his
rooms, had risen as he gave the man the lie direct.

For an instant, now, as he stared at him, there was murder in his eye.
Then the utter hopeless helplessness of his position overwhelmed him, as
Ruthven, with danger written all over him, stood up, his soft smooth
thumbs hooked in the glittering sash of his kimona.

"Scowl if you like," he said, backing away instinctively, but still
nervously impertinent; "and keep your distance! If you've anything
further to say to me, write it." Then, growing bolder as Selwyn made no
offensive move, "Write to me," he repeated with a venomous smirk