Courtlandt rose impetuously and stood with his back to the fire, one arm resting on the carved mantel.
"Good Lord, man, I'm not the one to say. It isn't my life that's being tied up. This property can go to the----" he stopped, and looked about the beautiful room. He stared for a moment at the portrait of a seventeenth century Courtlandt which hung opposite, then up at the beautiful face of the woman in the painting set like a jewel in the dark paneling above the mantel. Her eyes looked back at him, gravely, searchingly. His voice was husky as he added quickly, "I'll talk with Steve to-night and if he----"
"I'm glad you named him Stephen. It was Stephanus Courtlandt whose estate was erected into the lordship and manor of Courtlandt by William the third, wasn't it? You see I know your family history backward. I never buy a pig in a poke," with rough frankness. He rose and stretched to his great height. The man watching him thought of the Russian bear which had roused and shaken himself with such tragic results. "Why don't you and Steve run in town to-night and have supper with Jerry and me after the theatre?"
"Thank you; if Steve has no engagement we will."
Glamorgan thrust his hands deep into his pockets and glowered at the man by the mantel.
"I'll leave you now to deal with him. You might mention to Steve the fact that if he refuses my offer I foreclose within forty-eight hours."
The blood rushed to Courtlandt's face as though it would burst through the thin, ivory skin. He touched a bell, his voice was cold with repression as he answered the threat:
"I'll talk with Stephen this evening. Judson, Mr. Glamorgan's coat," to the smooth-haired, smooth-faced, smooth-footed butler who answered the ring.
The big man paused a moment, his little green eyes flames of suspicion.
"You'll let me hear from you to-morrow? No shilly-shallying, mind. A straight 'Yes' or 'No.'"
"A straight 'Yes' or 'No' to-morrow it is, Glamorgan. Good-night! Judson, when Mr. Stephen comes in ask him to come to me here."
After his guest had departed Courtlandt snapped off the lights and plunged the room in darkness save for the soft glow from the blazing logs. He sank into a wing-chair before the fire and rested his head on his thin hand. What a mess he had made of things. He had lost his inheritance, not through extravagance, but because he had not been enough of a business man to steer his financial ship clear of reefs during the last years of swiftly shifting values. To have the Courtlandt property swept away! It was impossible. He didn't care for himself but for Steve and Steve's children. He was a liar! He did care for himself. It would break his heart to have this old home, which had been the manor, fall into the hands of an erstwhile coal-picker. The town house was different. The location of that had followed the trail of fashion, it had no traditions, but this----He rose and paced the floor then returned to his old place before the mantel and listened. There was the sound of whistling in the hall, virile, tuneful, the sort that brings a smile to the lips of the most sophisticated. "The Whistling Lieut.!" Courtlandt remembered Steve had been called in the army. He dropped his head to his extended arm and stared unseeingly down at the flames. What would he say----?