“And what if I refuse!” The tone was low and angry. The speaker, a tall, sallow man with iron gray hair, brought his thin, nervous hand down on the long table in front of him with a soft but determined thud. “ But you won’t, you can’t refuse, Gilbert. Think what it means! Consider-” “I tell you I’m angry with you, Curtis. Angry to the soul! Haven’t I always been decent, more than decent to you? Haven’t I looked out for you through thick and thin? Haven’t I paid all your gambling debts and other debts no matter how discreditable? Even if we have quarrelled over them—even if I have balked and threatened, I’ve always protected you—because you were of my blood—for the sake of our name—and because, careless and extravagant, and worse, as I knew you to be, I thought you always told me the truth, and to that extent I trusted you. ” Gilbert Fane’s eyes were hard and bitter as he looked across the table at the tall, well-made, debonair figure of his younger brother. “I paid the woman once—handsomely— and you told me she was dead. Oh, Curtis, Curtis, I've always believed in your honesty to me at least. And there was so much at stake. Honour—the name of Fane to be bandied about in the yellow papers. God!”