“What of that?  Isn’t it just as well to be in my power as in the power of other people?”

Again Guion winced inwardly, but kept his self-control.  He was not yet accustomed to doing without the formulas of respect from those whom he considered his inferiors.

“Possibly,” he said, not caring to conceal a certain irritation; “but even so I should like to know in case I were in your power what you’d expect of me.”

“I can answer that question right away.  I shouldn’t expect anything at all.”

“Then you leave me more in the dark than ever.”

Davenant still eyed him pensively.  “Do I understand you to be suspicious of my motives?”

“Suspicious might not be the right word.  Suppose we said curious.”

Davenant reflected.  Perhaps it was his mastery of the situation that gave him unconsciously a rock-like air of nonchalance.  When he spoke it was with a little smile, which Guion took to be one of condescension.  Condescension in the circumstances was synonymous with insolence.

“Well, sir, suppose I allowed you to remain curious?  What then?”

They were the wrong words.  It was the wrong manner.  Guion looked up with a start.  His next words were uttered in the blind instinct of the haughty-headed gentleman who thinks highly of himself to save the moment’s dignity.

“In that case I think we must call the bargain off.”

Davenant shot out of his seat.  He, too, was not without a current of hot blood.

“All right, sir.  It’s for you to decide.  Only, I’m sorry.  Good-by!” He held out his hand, which Guion, who was now leaning forward, toying with the pens and pencils on the desk, affected not to see.  A certain lack of ease that often came over Davenant at moments of leave-taking or greeting kept him on the spot.  “I hoped,” he stammered, “that I might have been of some use to you, and that Miss Guion—­”

Guion looked up sharply.  “Has she got anything to do with it?”

“Nothing,” Davenant said, quickly, “nothing whatever.”

“I didn’t see how she could have—­” Guion was going on, when Davenant interrupted.

“She has nothing to do with it whatever,” he repeated.  “I was only going to say that I hoped she might have got through her wedding without hearing anything about—­all this—­all this fuss.”

In uttering the last words he had moved toward the door.  His hand was on the knob and he was about to make some repetition of his farewells when Guion spoke again.  He was leaning once more over the desk, his fingers playing nervously with the pens and pencils.  He made no further effort to keep up his role of keen-sighted man of business.  His head was bent, so that Davenant could scarcely see his face, and when he spoke his words were muffled and sullen.

“Half a million would be too much.  Four hundred and fifty thousand would cover everything.”