as I must go back to Father Christmas week, I wanted to get your advice as to the advisability of writing him that, though there is still a chance for doing wonders, I do not think we shall be able to save him.  Of course I won’t put it in just that blunt way, but it seems to me I should begin to prepare him for the blow.  I have not talked over any more plunging with you, Mr. Brownley, since the unlucky one in Sugar, and——­”

“Miss Sands, I understand what you mean,” Bob broke in, “and I should apologise for not having consulted with you about your business affairs.  The fact is, I have not been quite clear as to the best thing to do.  I hope you don’t think I have forgotten.  Never for a moment since I took charge of your affairs have I forgotten my promise to see that they were kept active.  Truly I have been trying to think out some successful plunge, but—­but”—­there was a hoarseness in his voice—­“I have not had my old confidence in myself since that day in Sugar when I killed your hopes and destroyed the chance of saving your father—­no, I have not had that confidence a man must have in himself to win at this game.”

There was a silence, and then I heard an indescribable fluttering rush that told as plainly as sight could have done that a woman had answered her heart’s call.  Looking up involuntarily, I saw a sight that for a long moment held my eyes as if I had been fascinated.  It was Bob bowed forward with his face hidden in his hands and beside him, on her knees, Beulah Sands, her arms about his neck, his head drawn down to her bosom.  “Bob, Bob,” she said chokingly, “I cannot stand it any longer.  My heart is breaking for you.  You were so happy when I came into your life, and the happiness is changed to misery and despair, and all for me, a stranger.  At first I thought of nothing but father and how to save him, but since that day when those men struck at your heart, I have been filled with, oh! such a longing to tell you, to tell you, Bob——­”

“What?  Beulah, what?  For the love of God, don’t stop; tell me, Beulah, tell me.”  He had not lifted his head.  It was buried on her breast, his arms closed around her.  She bent her head and laid her beautiful, soft cheek, down which the tears were now streaming, against his brown hair.  “Bob, forgive me, but I love you, love you, Bob, as only a woman can love who has never known love before, never known anything but stern duty.  Bob, night after night when all have left I have crept into your office and sat in your chair.  I have laid my head on your desk and cried and cried until it seemed as though I could not live till morning without hearing you say that you loved me, and that you did not mind the ruin I had brought into your life.  I have patted the back of your chair where your dear head had rested.  I have covered the arms of your chair, that your strong, brave hands had gripped, with kisses.  Night after night I have knelt at your desk and prayed to God to shield you, to protect you from all harm, to brush away the black cloud I brought into your life.  I have asked Him to do with me, yes, with my father and mother, anything, anything if only He would bring back to you the happiness I had stolen.  Bob, I have suffered, suffered, as only a woman can suffer.”