“That wasn’t what I was going to ask you,” said Presson with decision.  “It’s about the girl whom I saw—­”

“The name of no other person belongs in this discussion,” broke in Harlan, firmly.  “I refuse to permit that name to be dragged in, for it’s insult and scandal.”

There was silence in the room.  The chairman looked at Harlan, impressed by his demeanor.  He knew the young man well enough to think twice before he persisted.  Thelismer Thornton smoked hard, scowling.  He was a little cautious about thrusting himself further into a matter that he knew would test the Thornton spirit in his grandson.

But Linton was determined to win his point.  He thought he saw his opportunity.  He hoped he could force a break between Presson and the other suitor.

“I’m interested in this matter as much as any one,” he declared.  “I have not told you the full story, Mr. Presson.  But I’m here to see this matter straightened out for good and all, and unless you get an answer from this man, as a father ought to, I’ll see that you have the facts to put you right.”

“Linton, didn’t I tell you last night that you were circulating a lie?” Harlan’s face was gray.

“If it’s a lie why are you afraid of telling Mr. Presson the whole truth and explaining the matter?” insisted Lintonwith a lawyer’s pertinacity in extracting evidence.  He realized that if young Thornton talked, even to admit the facts that information from the north country seemed to prove, a bit of impromptu cross-examination might yield results that would help the Linton cause.

“I refuse because every word that is said on the subject is a gross insult to an innocent girl,” declared Harlan, passionately.  “And I warn you that if you open your mouth again you’ll get the only thing a man can give you and remain a man!”

“You’d better take the hint, Linton,” advised the Duke.  “I don’t know exactly what you’re driving at, but you’re heading toward trouble.  They don’t do things up our way as they do in a city court-room.”

Linton was angry, desperate, and he was as stalwart as the other.  He was not inclined to let that opportunity pass.

Defiantly he plunged into the story that Spinney had reported.  To his astonishment Harlan rushed for the door.  He went out and slammed it behind him.

A project had come to him, prompted by his furious rage which mocked common-sense.  A man more accustomed to the conventions would not have attempted it.  But all his north-country passion rioted in him at that moment.

The night before he had wept because the peace and good name of Clare Kavanagh were threatened and he could only beat the ugly phantom of scandal helplessly.

Now suddenly he found work for his hands—­and his hands had always been his means of expressing his soul in toil, achievement, and in passion.