McVay, as if he had observed nothing, threw himself at once into the part of a waiter, tucked a napkin round his waist, flung another over his arm and began to clear the table.

"Wait a moment," said Geoffrey, who had not followed his example; "I have something to say to you. I see you are in possession of my sentiments in regard to your sister.... I think her a wonder,--that's all it is necessary for you to know."

"Quite naturally, Holland. She is, she is."

"I won't discuss that with you. The point is that you seem to be under the impression that this will do you some good. Well, it won't. You stand just where you did before. You go to jail when the snow melts.

Then I settle my affairs."

McVay's face fell. "Really, Holland," he said, "I don't see how, if you are fond of a woman you can want ..."

"... to spare her such a brother as you. Think it over."

"There are worse brothers than I," replied McVay, "how many men would have sacrificed what I have sacrificed in order to keep her comfortably."

"Not many, I hope."

"She is extraordinarily fond of me."

"Perhaps. You see she has not any one else to be fond of."

"We can scarcely say that _now_," returned McVay encouragingly.

"I won't discuss it with you."

"You can't mean to tell me that you are in love with my sister and mean to send me to state's prison?"

"I mean exactly that."

"Why, she'd never forgive you."

Geoffrey thought this so probable that he had no answer to give and presently McVay, who had been grumbling over the matter to himself, asked: "Are you serious, Holland?"

"What do you suppose I am?" Geoffrey roared, and McVay, shaking his head went on with the work of clearing the table. He was very silent and abstracted and for the first time seemed to realise his position. When they had put away the last plate, Geoffrey said:

"Now come to the library. I am going to give you a pipe, confound you."

"A pipe! Why?"

"Because I want to give your sister something, and I think she would be more apt to take it."

"I'm afraid she is rather offended by the way you treated her little gift. As a matter of fact I was the person to be offended, for I had given her the pencil. A pretty little thing, singularly like one which you may have seen Mrs.--"

"Don't tell me where you took it from. I don't want to know. Come and get your pipe and mind you are grateful."

"A pipe," observed McVay thoughtfully. "I think I'll take that large meerschaum on the mantelpiece."

Geoffrey laughed. "I think you won't," he answered. "The best pipe I own! No, indeed, you'll take a horrid little one that won't draw. It will be just the thing for you."

"No," said McVay, "no. You must give me the big one. Otherwise I shall make it appear that you promised the other to me, and turned mean at the last moment. And I can do it, Holland." His little eyes gleamed at the thought. "I shall say, 'My dear fellow, I'm glad you changed your mind about the meerschaum; it was as you say, too handsome for a man in my position.' That will make her mad if anything will. You know she is not quite satisfied with the way you treat me, as it is."

This was quite true, and Geoffrey, remembering that the object of the gift was to please the girl, reluctantly agreed to part with his favourite pipe. The affair went off well. McVay affected to hesitate over accepting so handsome an offering, and Geoffrey pressed it upon him with a good grace.

As far as his present to the girl was concerned, he found himself less and less willing to make it in McVay's presence, and more and more unable to think of any way of getting rid of him except murder or the cedar-closet. His anxiety was rendered more acute by the fact that once or twice he could not help suspecting that Cecilia, in spite of her anger, would have been glad of a few words alone with him, also.

Before very long she suggested that McVay should take her hat and coat upstairs for her.

"Certainly I will," cried Billy, springing up with alacrity, and was at the door before Holland's warning shout "_McVay_" stopped him.

"Let me take it up for your sister," he said warningly.

"Oh, not at all. Let _me_," replied McVay courteously.

"Couldn't hear of it," returned Geoffrey.

By this time they were both outside of the door, and Geoffrey closed it with a snap.

"You would, would you?" he said angrily.

"Now, Holland," said McVay as one who intends to introduce reason into an irrational confusion, "this is exactly a case in point. I am by nature a gallant man. I forgot all about your instructions."

"I wonder?" said Geoffrey.

"It was instinctive to do my sister the little favour she asked. Yes, and I doubt if I should have acted differently if your pistol had been at my head. She asked me. That was enough."

"I've warned you once."

"Holland, I think,--you'll excuse my telling you,--that you have a very unfortunate manner at times."

They went upstairs together and were descending when Geoffrey stopped, with his eyes on the grand piano which stood in the hall below them.

"Can you play?" he said.

McVay brightened at once. He had been looking a little glum since his last speech. "Yes," he answered, "I can. Well, I'm not a professional, you understand, but for an amateur I am supposed to have as much technique and a good deal more sentiment than most."

"I don't care _how_ you play," said Holland. "There is a piano. Sit down and play, and _don't stop_."

"No, Holland, no," said the other with unusual firmness; "that I will not do. No artist would. Ask any one. It is impossible to play in public without practice. I have not touched the instrument for over a year."

"You can do all the practising you like here and now. You can play finger exercises for all I care. All I insist is that you should make a noise so that I'll know you are there."

"Well," said McVay yielding, "you must remember to make allowances. Not the best musician could sit down after a year ... however, I dare say it will come back to me quicker than to most people. You must make allowances for my lack of practice."

"There is only one thing I won't make allowances for, and that is your moving from that music stool."

He opened the piano, and McVay sat down waving his fingers to loosen the joints. He sat with his head on one side, as if waiting to discover which of the great composers was about to inspire him. Then he dropped lightly upon the notes, lifting his chin, as if surprised to find that an air of Schubert's was growing under his fingers. Geoffrey was astonished to find that he really was, as he said, something of an artist. He waited until he was fairly started and then returned to the library.

"Is that Billy?" said the girl. "It must be a great pleasure to him to have a piano again. He is so fond of music."