“Is it necessary?”

“It is.  Also that now you set before me the—­autographs, together with their reproductions of every kind, on this table, and permit me to verify the collection by the list supplied by my lawyers.”

She frowned, and taking the packet from its resting place, unslipped the band and spread out its contents.

“They are all there,” she said slowly, and there was hurt pride in her voice.

Without stopping to consult either the memoranda or the letters, he swept the whole together, and, striding to the fireplace, consigned them to the flames.

“The plates!” she gasped, rising and following him.  “They must be destroyed completely.”

He smiled at her grimly.  “I’ll take care of that.  And now, if you will come to the table, I will explain your account with my firm.  I bought L.U. & Y. for you at the opening, the day following our compact, feeling sure we would get at least a five-point rise, and that would be earning a bit of interest until I could put you in on a good move.  I had private information the following day in Forward Express stock.  I sold for you, and bought F.E.  If you have followed that market you will see what happened—­a thirty-point rise.  Then I drew out, cashed up and clapped the whole thing into Union Short.  I had to wait three days for that, but when it came—­there, look at the figures for yourself.  Your account with Morley & Gard stands you in one hundred thousand dollars, and it will be more if you don’t disturb the present investment for a few days.”

Mrs. Marteen’s eyes were wide.

“What are you doing this for?” she said calmly.  “That wasn’t the bargain.  I’ll not touch a penny more.”

“Why did I do it?  Because I won’t have any question of blackmail between us.  Like the good friend that you are, you gave me something which might otherwise have been to my hurt.  On the other hand, I invested your money for you wisely, honestly, sanely and with all the best of my experience and knowledge.  It’s clean money there, Mrs. Marteen, and I’m ready to do as much again whenever you need it.  You say you won’t take it—­why, it’s yours.  You must.  I want to be friends.  I don’t want this thing lying between us, crossing our thoughts.  If I ask you impertinent questions, which I undoubtedly shall, I want them to have the sanction of good will.  I want you to know that I feel nothing but kindness for you—­nothing but pleasure in your company.”

He paused, confounded by the blank wall of her apparent indifference.  Marcus Gard was accustomed to having his friendly offices solicited.  That his overtures should be rebuffed was incredible.  Moreover, he had looked for feminine softening, had expected the moist eye and quivering lip as a matter of course; it seemed the inevitable answer to that cue.  It was not forthcoming.  Again the conviction of some great psychic loss disturbed him.

“My dear Mr. Gard,” the level, colorless voice was saying, “I fear we are quite beside the subject, are we not?  I am not requesting anything.  I am not putting myself under obligations to you; I trust you understand.”