Thus, for a little while, these two were driven apart, and Anstruther disdained to urge the plea that not many weeks would elapse before he would be a richer man than his rival.  The chief sufferer was Sir Arthur Deane.  Had Iris guessed how her father was tormented, she would not have remained on the bridge, radiant and mirthful, whilst the grey-haired baronet gazed with stony-eyed despair at some memoranda which he extracted from his papers.

“Ten thousand pounds!” he muttered.  “Not a great sum for the millionaire financier, Sir Arthur Deane, to raise on his note of hand.  A few months ago men offered me one hundred times the amount on no better security.  And now, to think that a set of jabbering fools in London should so destroy my credit and their own, that not a bank will discount our paper unless they are assured Lord Ventnor has joined the board!  Fancy me, of all men, being willing to barter my child for a few pieces of gold!”

The thought was maddening.  For a little while he yielded to utter despondency.  It was quite true that a comparatively small amount of money would restore the stability of his firm.  Even without it, were his credit unimpaired, he could easily tide over the period of depression until the first fruits of his enterprise were garnered.  Then, all men would hail him as a genius.

Wearily turning over his papers, he suddenly came across the last letter written to him by Iris’s mother.  How she doted on their only child!  He recalled one night, shortly before his wife died, when the little Iris was brought into her room to kiss her and lisp her infantile prayers.  She had devised a formula of her own—­“God bless father!  God bless mother!  God bless me, their little girl!”

And what was it she cried to him from the beach?

“Your own little girl given back to you!”

Given back to him!  For what—­to marry that black-hearted scoundrel whose pastime was the degradation of women and the defaming of honest men?  That settled it.  Instantly the cloud was lifted from his soul.  A great peace came upon him.  The ruin of his business he might not be able to avert, but he would save from, the wreck that which he prized more than all else—­his daughter’s love.

The engines dropped to half speed—­they were entering the harbor of Singapore.  In a few hours the worst would be over.  If Ventnor telegraphed to London his withdrawal from the board, nothing short of a cabled draft for ten thousand pounds would prevent certain creditors from filing a bankruptcy petition.  In the local banks the baronet had about a thousand to his credit.  Surely among the rich merchants of the port, men who knew the potentialities of his scheme, he would be able to raise the money needed.  He would try hard.  Already he felt braver.  The old fire had returned to his blood.  The very belief that he was acting in the way best calculated to secure his daughter’s happiness stimulated and encouraged him.