outwitting you, as you seem to think. What you haven’t considered is the situation if I am right and Richard does want to wriggle out of the marriage.”
“He doesn’t,” she said quickly.
“Then you have nothing to fear,” he assured her dryly.
There was a short, uneasy pause. Then she said slowly: “But if—for the sake of argument—he—he did want to avoid marrying me, what then?”
“Then, my dear Hope, you would either have to get back the five hundred pounds from him—which I think you would find singularly difficult—or else fulfil the two conditions I named.”
“Agree not to see him again and—and marry you?”
“Exactly.”
Again there was silence.
“Rather too stiff a test of your faith in him, Hope?” he enquired, watching her.
“Isn’t it rather—capricious of you to put this sort of choice before me?” she retorted.
“Capricious? Oh, no, my dear, I don’t think so. If Richard Fander is the worthwhile young man you make out, then there is no reason why I shouldn’t help him and no reason why I should question your likelihood of being happy with him. But if he is what I think, then I certainly don’t intend him to have five hundred pounds of my good money unless I get something very handsome in return. What I intend to have is the reassurance that you give up your association with a man who will have proved himself unworthy and dangerous, and secondly—well, Hope, you know the other condition.”
She looked at him curiously and then said:
“But why do you want me to marry you?”
He laughed a good deal at that, but he brushed it aside. “I’ll tell you that when the time comes—if it ever does. You see, your Richard is not the only one who is willing to speculate on a slim chance.”
Hope bit her lip. She knew, of course, that to take on his proposition was to take on something of a risk. Everything would depend on Richard, and Richard’s character in the last few days had become just a little unpredictable. But there lay that cheque for five hundred pounds—the solution to all their difficulties, the big stepping-stone to their marriage. Was she really to refuse it because she felt she could not risk everything on the certainty of Richard really being what she insisted he was?
“Of course,” Errol Tamberly went on, “I rely on your honesty for you not to tell young Fander what is involved. All I wish to have proved is that, once out of his present tangle, he is willing and eager to marry you, rich or poor. He musn’t have it represented to him that he ought to marry you in order to save you from something of a—well, a predicament, shall we say?”
“No,” Hope said. “That’s fair.”
“You hand over the five hundred pounds and then see what his reaction is to immediate preparations for your marriage. I presume an immediate marriage was what you were contemplating before the complications arose?”
“Yes,” Hope agreed. “Oh, yes, of course.” And as she recalled Richard’s eager plans and how, at the news of her parents’ death, he had insisted that the only thing was for them to get married at the first possible moment, all her confidence returned.
What was the matter with her that she had allowed unworthy doubts of Richard to sway her judgment over the very thing which would save him? What sort of fiancée was she, even to think of refusing the five hundred pounds which would keep him from prison?—and that only because someone had put doubts into her mind about Richard really loving her. He could hardly have proved his love with more distressing clearness than by this unfortunate speculation which had started all the trouble. He had risked everything for her, and she had been toying with the possibility of letting him take the consequences, when she could save him merely by affirming her faith in him.
She looked across the desk at Errol Tamberly, steadily and even defiantly.
“I accept, of course. On the exact terms you’ve laid
“He doesn’t,” she said quickly.
“Then you have nothing to fear,” he assured her dryly.
There was a short, uneasy pause. Then she said slowly: “But if—for the sake of argument—he—he did want to avoid marrying me, what then?”
“Then, my dear Hope, you would either have to get back the five hundred pounds from him—which I think you would find singularly difficult—or else fulfil the two conditions I named.”
“Agree not to see him again and—and marry you?”
“Exactly.”
Again there was silence.
“Rather too stiff a test of your faith in him, Hope?” he enquired, watching her.
“Isn’t it rather—capricious of you to put this sort of choice before me?” she retorted.
“Capricious? Oh, no, my dear, I don’t think so. If Richard Fander is the worthwhile young man you make out, then there is no reason why I shouldn’t help him and no reason why I should question your likelihood of being happy with him. But if he is what I think, then I certainly don’t intend him to have five hundred pounds of my good money unless I get something very handsome in return. What I intend to have is the reassurance that you give up your association with a man who will have proved himself unworthy and dangerous, and secondly—well, Hope, you know the other condition.”
She looked at him curiously and then said:
“But why do you want me to marry you?”
He laughed a good deal at that, but he brushed it aside. “I’ll tell you that when the time comes—if it ever does. You see, your Richard is not the only one who is willing to speculate on a slim chance.”
Hope bit her lip. She knew, of course, that to take on his proposition was to take on something of a risk. Everything would depend on Richard, and Richard’s character in the last few days had become just a little unpredictable. But there lay that cheque for five hundred pounds—the solution to all their difficulties, the big stepping-stone to their marriage. Was she really to refuse it because she felt she could not risk everything on the certainty of Richard really being what she insisted he was?
“Of course,” Errol Tamberly went on, “I rely on your honesty for you not to tell young Fander what is involved. All I wish to have proved is that, once out of his present tangle, he is willing and eager to marry you, rich or poor. He musn’t have it represented to him that he ought to marry you in order to save you from something of a—well, a predicament, shall we say?”
“No,” Hope said. “That’s fair.”
“You hand over the five hundred pounds and then see what his reaction is to immediate preparations for your marriage. I presume an immediate marriage was what you were contemplating before the complications arose?”
“Yes,” Hope agreed. “Oh, yes, of course.” And as she recalled Richard’s eager plans and how, at the news of her parents’ death, he had insisted that the only thing was for them to get married at the first possible moment, all her confidence returned.
What was the matter with her that she had allowed unworthy doubts of Richard to sway her judgment over the very thing which would save him? What sort of fiancée was she, even to think of refusing the five hundred pounds which would keep him from prison?—and that only because someone had put doubts into her mind about Richard really loving her. He could hardly have proved his love with more distressing clearness than by this unfortunate speculation which had started all the trouble. He had risked everything for her, and she had been toying with the possibility of letting him take the consequences, when she could save him merely by affirming her faith in him.
She looked across the desk at Errol Tamberly, steadily and even defiantly.
“I accept, of course. On the exact terms you’ve laid
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