away to spend his last night in his little wooden home. On the
threshold he paused, and faced once more that black, mysterious line
of forest.

"Well, I've done with you now," he cried, a note of coarse exultation
in his tone. "I've gambled for my life and I've won. To-morrow I'll
begin to spend the stakes."



CHAPTER VII


In a handsomely appointed room of one of the largest hotels in
London a man was sitting at the head of a table strewn with
blotting-paper and writing materials of every description. Half a
dozen chairs had been carelessly pushed back, there were empty
champagne bottles upon the sideboard, the air was faintly odorous
of tobacco smoke - blue wreaths were still curling upwards towards
the frescoed ceiling. Yet the gathering had not been altogether a
festive one. There were sheets of paper still lying about covered
with figures, a brass-bound ledger lay open at the further end of
the table, In the background a young man, slim, pale, ill-dressed
in sober black, was filling a large tin box with documents and
letters.

It had been a meeting of giants. Men whose names were great in
the world of finance had occupied those elaborately decorated
leather chairs. There had been cynicism, criticism, and finally
enthusiasm. For the man who remained it had been a triumph. He