"You may see me as I am." he returned, doggedly.

"And a most d.a.m.nably unpleasant sight it is."

Schuyler wheeled.

"You go too far," he said, threateningly.

"Too far?" repeated Blake. "Impossible.... I wish to see you alone--if you, and this woman--dare."

She, smiling, bowed, graciously.

"By all means," she agreed, easily.

"No!" cried Schuyler. "Stay where you are."

She shook her head.

"Pray pardon me. I'll wait in the morning room."

Alone, Blake turned and looked at Schuyler. Could it be that this was the man that had been his friend? ... It must be; and yet how could it be?

There was in his heart a great bitterness. He could not understand....

Schuyler had turned to him.

"Look here, Tom," he began, doggedly, "before you begin, I wish to tell you that it is useless. Nothing that you can say will change me in the slightest. I've made up my mind; and my decision is unalterable."

"Irrevocable, is the word."

"As you will.... I'm sorry if the course I choose doesn't seem right to you--to the world--sometimes even to myself--and I'll confess to you that it doesn't--But, right, or wrong, it's the only one for me, and I must take it--must, whether I will or not. So, if you've come for a cigar and a chat, well and good. But if for anything else, go and avoid trouble."

"I'm looking for trouble," returned Blake, quietly. He advanced to the table and leaned against it. "Jack," he exclaimed, "you're a d.a.m.ned fool.

There was some excuse for the others. Parmalee was a kid--Rogers an old fool--Van Dam--well, absinthe and asininity account for him. And they fell to their fooldom without warning to guard them or precedent to shield them. But you--open-eyed, knowing everything--forewarned and forearmed,--walk fatuously to your doom as one sheep follows another over a precipice. I swear I can't even yet believe that it isn't all a dream.

I keep pinching myself and saying to myself that in the morning I'll wake up and go around and tell old Jack all about it as being a good joke.

It's an uncanny, filthy sort of a nightmare as it stands, however." He turned to the other; Schuyler was striding up and down the room. "Old man," he pleaded, quietly, "what's the answer?"

Schuyler stopped in his walk. Looking at Blake, he remarked:

"You've never loved. You couldn't know."

"Never loved!" cried Blake, scornfully. "Couldn't know! h.e.l.l! You make me tired! What do you mean by debauching and degrading a good, pure word like love by applying it to this snaky, b.e.s.t.i.a.l fascination of yours.

You're a fool!"

Schuyler advanced upon him, threateningly.

"Don't you call me that, too," he said, tensely.

Blake paid no heed.

"Love!" he cried, disgustedly. "This sordid, sodden pa.s.sion of yours love! Love lives only where there is sympathy, and respect, and mutual understanding. Do you mean to tell me that you have any respect for this woman? You know well you haven't a bit more respect for her than she has for you, and that's none. Do you mean to tell me there's any sympathy between you? No more than there is between a snake and a bird. And you aren't capable of understanding her any more than she is of understanding you. Love! It's l.u.s.t! And you know it!"

Schuyler had dropped into a chair. Blake finished. He swung toward him.

"Go on!" he almost hissed, through clenched teeth. "Go on! If you can tell me anything that I haven't told myself, I'd like to hear it. Tell me what you think. Tell me what everyone thinks. Put into words the scorn and contempt that I see in every eye that looks into mine--in every mirror that I look into. Go on! Tell me something else! But let me tell you one thing! When Destiny can't get a man any other way, she sends a woman for him.... And the woman gets him."

Blake looked at him.

"'A fool there was';" he quoted. Schuyler interrupted.

"Stop!" he commanded. "Don't you suppose I know that thing by heart-- every syllable--every letter of it? Don't you suppose I know what it means--all that it means--better than you can ever know?" He struck his forehead with clenched fist. "Tell me the things that lie here!" his voice was almost a scream. "The things that lie here, and burn, and burn, and burn! Tell me the things that lie here!" He struck his forehead again.

"I'll tell you this," said Blake, voice cold, and ringing. "It was written for you by a man who knew you; and you'll listen."

"No!" protested Schuyler. He started to rise from his chair. But Blake, catching him by the shoulders, thrust him back, holding him pinioned.

"You fool," he remarked, bitterly. "You poor, pitiful, puling fool!

'Honor, and faith, and a sure intent'--a wife, a child, a reputation, a character. 'Stripped to his foolish hide,' the poem reads. But you're stripped to your naked, sodden skeleton. If I weren't so sorry for you, I could cut your throat. When I think of the little girl--calling you daddy--honoring you--loving you--and of what you've done for her! When I think of your wife--of the woman who went through the pains of childbirth for you--who held you sacred in that great, loving, glorious heart of hers--who gave, and gave, and gave asking only that there might be the more to give--You say that maybe I don't know what love is. Well, maybe I don't--and maybe I do. There are some things that a man may not tell his best friend--there are some things that a man may not even tell himself.

But I'm different from you, thank G.o.d, and I love differently."

He moved back. Schuyler remained seated. Leaden eyes had in them now a new light--the light of suffering refined. Blake commanded:

"Stand up. Look me in the eye, as man to man--if you can."

Swiftly Schuyler rose to his feet. The two men stood face to face, eye to eye.

"Now," cried Blake, hope in his heart--hope ringing in his voice, "will you be a man, or a thing that earth, nor heaven, nor even h.e.l.l has room for?"

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

DEFEAT.

Came from the door of the morning room a light, ringing, musical laugh.

The woman stood there, white arms extended above her head, hands resting on door sides.

Schuyler fell back a step. Blake turned.

Again she laughed, lightly, ripplingly. And then:

"What a splendid revivalist was lost to the world when your friend became a mere broker!" And to Blake: "Why once or twice I myself became almost enthusiastic. Really, sir, you are a most convincing speaker--though if you will pardon a well-meant criticism, your low tones are a bit harsh."

There was in Blake's heart a great bitterness. When first he had come to see the man that had been his friend, there had been in his breast but little hope. Later, however, he had understood better; and there had awakened within him an idea that perhaps, after all, it was not too late-- and then had come confidence, and the desire to fight. And he had fought. He had almost won. But now, he knew that he had lost; for in Schuyler's eyes he saw dull, hopeless docility, and in The Woman's, conscious power and strength beyond measure.

He turned. He looked at this woman who was his foe--his victor.

Slowly he said: