The mask of youth which was Vance Cornish crumbled and fell away. A new
man looked down at her. The firm flesh of his face became loose. His
whole body was flabby. She had the feeling that if she pushed against his
chest with the weight of her arm, he would topple to the floor. That
weakness gradually passed. A peculiar strength of purpose grew in its
place.

"Of course, this is a very shrewd game, Elizabeth. You want to wake me
up. You're using the spur to make me work. I don't blame you for using
the bluff, even if it's a rather cruel one. But, of course, it's
impossible for you to be serious in what you say."

"Why impossible, Vance?"

"Because you know that I'm the last male representative of our family.
Because you know my father would turn in his grave if he knew that an
interloper, a foundling, the child of a murderer, a vagabond, had been
made the heir to his estate. But you aren't serious, Elizabeth; I
understand."

He swallowed his pride, for panic grew in him in proportion to the length
of time she maintained her silence.

"As a matter of fact, I don't blame you for giving me a scare, my dear
sister. I have been a shameless loafer. I'm going to reform and lift the
burden of business off your shoulders--let you rest the remainder of your
life."

It was the worst thing he could have said. He realized it the moment he
had spoken. This forced, cowardly surrender was worse than brazen