“You will help me, eh?” persists Sir Hastings, with his little dry chronic cough, that seems to shake his whole frame.

“Impossible,” says the professor, simply, coldly.

"No? Why?”

The professor looks at him (a penetrating glance), but says nothing.

“Oh! damn it all!” says his brother, his brow darkening.  “You had better, you know, if you want the old name kept above water much longer.”

“You mean——?” says the professor, turning a grave face to his.

“Nothing but what is honorable.  I tell you I mean to turn over a new leaf.  ’Pon my word, I mean that. I’m sick of all this old racket, it’s killing me.  And my title is as good a one as she can find anywhere, and if I’m dipped—­rather—­her money would pull me straight again, and——­”

He pauses, struck by something in the Professor’s face.

“You mean——?” says the latter again, even more slowly.  His eyes are beginning to light.

“Exactly what I have said,” sullenly.  “You have heard me.”

“Yes, I have heard you,” cries the professor, flinging aside all restraints and giving way to sudden violent passion—­the more violent, coming from one so usually calm and indifferent.  “You have come here to-day to try and get possession, not only of the fortune of a young and innocent girl, but of her body and soul as well!  And it is me, me whom you ask to be a party to this shameful transaction.  Her dead father left her to my care, and am I to sell her to you, that her money may redeem our name from the slough into which you have flung it?  Is innocence to be sacrificed that vice may ride abroad again?  Look here,” says the professor, his face deadly white, “you have come to the wrong man.  I shall warn Miss Wynter against marriage with you, as long as there is breath left in my body.”

Sir Hastings has risen too; his face is dark red; the crimson flood has reached his forehead and dyed it almost black.  Now, at this terrible moment, the likeness between the two brothers, so different in spirit, can be seen; the flashing eyes, the scornful lips, the deadly hatred.  It is a shocking likeness, yet not to be denied.

“What do you mean, damn you?” says Sir Hastings; he sways a little, as if his passion is overpowering him, and clutches feebly at the edge of the table.__

“Exactly what I have said,” retorts the professor, fiercely.

“You refuse then to go with me in this matter?”

"Finally. Even if I would, I could not.  I—­have other views for her.”

“Indeed!  Perhaps those other views include yourself.  Are you thinking of reserving the prize for your own special benefit?  A penniless guardian—­a rich ward; as a situation, it is perfect; full of possibilities.”

“Take care,” says the professor, advancing a step or two.