"Old man," said John frankly, "I could no more have turned down that
pass-- Oh, well, what's the use? It was just great. I suppose I'd
better tackle the boss now. It's got to be done."

It was not a task to which many would have looked forward. Most of
those who came into contact with Andrew Westley were afraid of him. He
was a capable rather than a lovable man, and too self-controlled to be
quite human. There was no recoil in him, no reaction after anger, as
there would have been in a hotter-tempered man. He thought before he
acted, but, when he acted, never yielded a step.

John, in all the years of their connection, had never been able to make
anything of him. At first, he had been prepared to like him, as he
liked nearly everybody. But Mr. Westley had discouraged all advances,
and, as time went by, his nephew had come to look on him as something
apart from the rest of the world, one of those things which no fellow
could understand.

On Mr. Westley's side, there was something to be said in extenuation of
his attitude. John reminded him of his father, and he had hated the
late Prince of Mervo with a cold hatred that had for a time been the
ruling passion of his life. He had loved his sister, and her married
life had been one long torture to him, a torture rendered keener by the
fact that he was powerless to protect either her happiness or her
money. Her money was her own, to use as she pleased, and the use which
pleased her most was to give it to her husband, who could always find a
way of spending it. As to her happiness, that was equally out of his
control. It was bound up in her Prince, who, unfortunately, was a bad
custodian for it. At last, an automobile accident put an end to His