For a single wild moment Tavernake hesitated.  She was so close to him that her hair touched his forehead, the breath from her upturned lips fell upon his cheeks.  Her blue eyes were half pleading, half inviting.

“You are going to be my very dear friend, are you not—­Leonard?” she whispered.  “I do feel that I need some one strong like you to help me through these days.”

Tavernake suddenly seized the hands that were upon his shoulders, and forced them back.  She felt herself gripped as though by a vice, and a sudden terror seized her.  He lifted her up and she caught a glimpse of his wild, set face.  Then the breath came through his teeth.  He shook all over but the fit had passed.  He simply thrust her away from him.

“No,” he said, “we cannot be friends!  You are a woman without a heart, you are a murderess!”

He tore her cheque calmly in pieces and flung them scornfully away.  She stood looking at him, breathing quickly, white to the lips though the murder had gone from his eyes.

“Beatrice warned me,” he went on; “Pritchard warned me.  Some things I saw for myself, but I suppose I was mad.  Now I know!”

He turned away.  Her eyes followed him wonderingly.

“Leonard,” she cried out, “you are not going like this?  You don’t mean it!”

Ever afterwards his restraint amazed him.  He did not reply.  He closed both doors firmly behind him and walked to the lift.  She came even to the outside door and called down the corridor.

“Leonard, come back for one moment!”

He turned his head and looked at her, looked at her from the corner of the corridor, steadfastly and without speech.  Her fingers dropped from the handle of the door.  She went back into her room with shaking knees, and began to cry softly.  Afterwards she wondered at herself.  It was the first time she had cried for many years.

Tavernake walked to the city and in less than half an hour’s time found himself in Mr. Martin’s office.  The lawyer welcomed him warmly.

“I’m jolly glad to see you, Tavernake,” he declared.  “I hope you’ve got the money.  Sit down.”

Tavernake did not sit down; he had forgotten, indeed, to take of his hat.

“Martin,” he said, “I am sorry for you.  I have been fooled and you have to pay as well as I have.  I can’t take up the option on the property.  I haven’t a penny toward it except my own money, and you know how much that is.  You can sell my plots, if you like, and call the money your costs.  I’ve finished.”

The lawyer looked at him with wide-open mouth.

“What on earth are you talking about, Tavernake?” he exclaimed.  “Are you drunk, by any chance?”

“No, I am quite sober,” Tavernake answered.  “I have made one or two bad mistakes, that’s all.  You have a power of attorney for me.  You can do what you like with my land, make any terms you please.  Good-day!”