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“You’ve not been a saint, and Di knows it,” repeated the weak brother of a girl whose fame belonged to the West; whose name was a signal for cheerful looks; whose buoyant humor and impartial friendliness gained her innumerable friends; and whose talent, understood by few, gave her a certain protection, lifting her a little away from the outwardly crude and provincial life around her.

When Rawley spoke, it was with quiet deliberation, and even gentleness. “I haven’t been a saint, and she knows it, as you say, Dan; but the law is on my side as yet, it isn’t on yours. There’s the difference.”

“You used to gamble yourself; you were pretty tough, and you oughtn’t to walk up my back with hobnailed boots.”

“Yes, I gambled, Dan, and I drank, and I raised a dust out here. My record was writ pretty big. But I didn’t lay my hands on the ark of the social covenant, whose inscription is, Thou shalt not steal; and that’s why I’m poor but proud, and no one’s watching for me round the corner, same as you.”

Welldon’s half-defiant petulance disappeared. “What’s done can’t be undone.” Then, with a sudden burst of anguish, “Oh, get me out of this somehow!”

“How? I’ve got no money. By speaking to your sister?”

The other was silent.

“Shall I do it?” Rawley peered anxiously into the other’s face, and he knew that there was no real security against the shameful trouble being laid bare to her.

“I want a chance to start straight again.”

The voice was fluttered, almost whining; it carried no conviction; but the words had in them a reminder of words that Rawley himself had said to Diana Welldon but a few months ago, and a new spirit stirred in him. He stepped forward and, gripping Dan’s shoulder with a hand of steel, said, fiercely:

“No, Dan. I’d rather take you to her in your coffin. She’s never known you, never seen what most of us have seen, that all you have–or nearly all–is your lovely looks and what they call a kind heart. There’s only you two in your family, and she’s got to live with you–awhile, anyhow. She couldn’t stand this business. She mustn’t stand it. She’s had enough to put up with in me; but at the worst she could pass me by on the other side, and there would be an end. It would have been said that Flood Rawley had got his deserts. It’s different with you.” His voice changed, softened. “Dan, I made a pledge to her that I’d never play cards again for money while I lived, and it wasn’t a thing to take on without some cogitation. But I cogitated, and took it on, and started life over again–me! Began practising law again–barrister, solicitor, notary public–at forty. And at last I’ve got my chance in a big case against the Canadian Pacific. It’ll make me or break me, Dan…. There, I wanted you to see where I stand with Di; and now I want you to promise me that you’ll not leave these rooms till I see you again. I’ll get you clear; I’ll save you, Dan.”

“Flood! Oh, my God, Flood!” The voice was broken.

“You’ve got to stay here, and you’re to remember not to get the funk, even if I don’t come before midnight. I’ll be here then, if I’m alive. If you don’t keep your word–but, there, you will.” Both hands gripped the graceful shoulders of the miscreant like a vise.

“So help me, Flood,” was the frightened, whispered reply. “I’ll make it up to you somehow, some day. I’ll pay you back.”

Rawley caught up his cap from the table.

“Steady!–steady! Don’t go at a fence till you’re sure of your seat, Dan,” he said. Then, with a long look at the portrait on the wall and an exclamation which the other did not hear, he left the room with a set, determined face.

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