With the curtailing of his income through the shrinking and non-payment
of dividends, he had drawn upon his principal and--keeping up
appearances was an expensive game. Every piece of property that he owned
was heavily mortgaged, and every bit of collateral was already deposited
to cover notes at his bank. Slowly Whitney's fingers loosened their grip
upon the bottle of whiskey.

"Well," and his voice cut the stillness like a whiplash. "What is your
pound of flesh?"

Spencer knocked the ash from the end of his cigar into the tray with care
that none should fall upon the polished mahogany table top.

"Kathleen might reconsider--eh?" suggestively. "And--eh--there is your
invention--_your latest invention_."

It was approaching midnight when Whitney stepped alone into the hall. The
hum of voices rose from the room below; evidently Vincent had neglected
to close the drawing-room doors, or else the Sisters in Unity needed air.
Listening intently, he judged from the direction of the voices that the
women had not gone into the dining-room.

Whitney walked toward the elevator, paused, then continued down the hall
and without rapping entered Kathleen's sitting-room. But he stopped on
the threshold on beholding Kathleen sitting before her desk with her head
resting upon its flat top, sound asleep. By her side lay paint box and
brushes and a half-completed miniature of Captain Miller. Without
disturbing her, Whitney crept softly from the room.