"Double or quits! Revenge!"

"I said once," George reminded him. "I'm off to bed."

The others resumed their play. Dalrymple stared at George, an ugly light in his eyes. George nodded, and the other followed him to the door.

George handed him a hundred dollars.

"Save you running upstairs. How much do you owe me now?"

"Couple hundred."

"I shouldn't worry about that," George laughed. "When you want a good deal more and it's inconvenient to run upstairs I might save you some trouble."

"Now that's white of you," Dalrymple condescended, and went, a trifle unsteadily, back to the table.

George carried to his room an impression that he had thoroughly soiled his hands at last, but unavoidably. Of course he had scorned Blodgett for involving Sinclair. His own case was very different. Besides, he hadn't actually involved Dalrymple yet, but he had made a start.

Dalrymple had always gunned for him. More than ever since Sylvia's announcement, George felt the necessity of getting Dalrymple where he could handle him. If she had chosen Dalrymple, of course, money would serve only until the greedy youth could get his fingers in the Planter bags. He shook with a quick repugnance. No matter who won her it mustn't be Dalrymple. He would stop that at any cost.

He sat for some time on the edge of the bed, studying the pattern of the rug. Was Dalrymple the man to arouse a grand pa.s.sion in her? She had said:

"I can't always be running away from you."

She had told him and no one else. Was the thing calculation, quite bereft of love? Oh, no. George couldn't imagine he was of such importance she would flee that far to be rid of him; but he went to bed at last, confessing the situation had elements he couldn't grasp.

Perhaps, when he knew surely who the man was, they would become sufficiently ponderable.

XI

He was up early after a miserable night, and failed to rout his depression with a long ride over country roads. When he got back in search of breakfast he found the others straggling down. First of all he saw Dalrymple, white and unsteady; heard him asking for Sylvia. Sylvia hadn't appeared.

"Who's for church?" Blodgett roared.

Mrs. Sinclair offered to shepherd the devout. They weren't many. Men even called Blodgett names for this newest recreation he had appeared to offer.

"How late did you play?" George asked Blodgett.

"Until, when I looked at my watch, I thought it must be last evening.

These young bloods are too keen for Papa Blodgett."

"Get into you?" George laughed.

"I usually manage to hang on to my money," Blodgett bragged, "but the stakes ran bigger and bigger. I'll say one thing for young Dalrymple.

He's no piker. Wrote I. O. U's until he wore out his fountain pen. I could paper a room with what I got. I'd be ashamed to collect them."

"Why?" George asked, shortly. "When he wrote them he knew they had to be redeemed."

Blodgett grinned.

"I expect he was a little pickled. Probably's forgot he signed them. I won't make him unhappy with his little pieces of paper."

"Daresay he'll be grateful," George said, dryly.

His ride had brought no appet.i.te. After breakfast he avoided people with a conviction that his only business here was to see Sylvia again, then to escape. It was noon before she appeared with Betty. He caught them walking from the hall to the library, and he studied Sylvia's face with anxious curiosity. It disappointed, repelled him. It was quite unchanged, as full of colour as usual, as full of unfriendliness. She nodded carelessly, quite as if nothing had happened--gave him the identical, remote greeting to which he had become too accustomed. And last evening he had fancied her nearer! He noticed, however, that she had put her hands behind her back.

"I hope you're feeling better."

"Better! I haven't been ill," she flashed.

Betty helped him out.

"Last night Mrs. Sinclair told us you had a headache."

"You ought to know, Betty, that means I was tired."

But George noticed she no longer looked at him. She hurried on.

"Dolly!" he heard her laugh. "You must have sat up rather late."

"Trying to forget my worry about you, Sylvia. Guess it gave me your headache."

George shrugged his shoulders and edged away, measuring his chances of seeing her alone. They were slender, for as usual she was a magnet, yet luck played for him and against her after luncheon, bringing them at the same moment from different directions to the empty hall. She wanted to hurry by, as if he were a disturbing shadow, but he barred her way.

"I suppose I should say I'm sorry I hurt you last night. I'll say it, if you wish, but I'm not particularly sorry."

She showed him her hands then, spread them before him. They trembled, but that was all. They recorded no marks of his precipitancy.

"I shouldn't expect you to be sorry. After that certainly you will never speak to me again."

"Will you tell me now who it is?" he asked.

Her temper blazed.

"I ought always to know what to expect from you."

She ran back to the door through which she had entered.

"Oh, Dolly!"

Dalrymple met her on the threshold.

"Take me for a walk," she said. "It won't hurt you."

Dalrymple indicated George.

"Morton coming?"

She shook her head and ran lightly upstairs.

"No, I'm not going," George said. "She's right. The fresh air will do you good."