Ben Blair

"The--main reason at least," he modified.

"Which was--" insistently.

Sidwell hesitated, his new-found confidence vanishing like the smoke from his cigar. But there was no escape.

"The reason, she said, was because you were--minus a pedigree."

The last words dropped like a bomb in the midst of the room. Ben Blair swiftly rose from his seat. The negro's eyes rolled around in search of some place of concealment. With a protesting movement Hough was on his feet.

"Gentlemen!" he implored. "Gentlemen!"

But the intervention was unnecessary. Ben Blair had settled back in his seat. Once more his hands were on the chair-arms.

"Do you," he insinuated gently, "consider the reason she gave an adequate one? Do you consider that it had any rightful place in the discussion?"

The question, seemingly simple, was hard to answer. An affirmative trembled on the city man's tongue. He realized it was his opportunity for a crushing rejoinder. But cold blue eyes were upon him and the meaning of their light was only too clear.

"I can understand the lady's point of view," he said evasively.

Ben Blair leaned forward, the great muscles of his jaw and temples tightening beneath the skin.

"I did not ask for the lady's point of view," he admonished, "I asked for your own."

Again Sidwell felt his opportunity, but physical cowardice intervened. No power on earth could have made him say "yes" when the other looked at him like that.

"No," he lied, "I do not see that it should make the slightest difference."

"On your honor, you swear you do not?"

Sidwell repeated the statement, and sealed it with his honor.

Ben Blair relaxed, and Hough mopped his brow with a sigh of relief. Even Sidwell felt the respite, but it was short-lived.

"I think," Ben resumed, "that what you've just said and sworn to gives the lie to your original statement that you have given me no cause for enmity. According to your own showing you are the one existing obstacle between Florence Baker and myself. Is it not so?"

Like a condemned criminal, Sidwell felt the noose tightening.

"I can't deny it," he admitted.

For some seconds Ben Blair looked at him with an expression almost menacing. When he again spoke the first trace of passion was in his voice.

"Such being the case, Clarence Sidwell," he went on, "caring for Florence Baker as I do, and knowing you as I do, why in God's name should I leave you, coward, in possession of the dearest thing to me in the world?" For an instant the voice paused, the protruding lower jaw advanced until it became a positive disfigurement. "Tell me why I should sacrifice my own happiness for yours. I have had enough of this word-play. Speak!"