Chapter XXII. Forget That I Loved You

"The night for dreaming, but the morn for seeing." And so Ranald found it; for with the cold, calm light of the morning, he found himself facing his battle with small sense of victory in his blood. He knew he had to deal that morning with the crisis of his life. Upon the issue his whole future would turn, but his heart without haste or pause preserved its even beat. The hour of indecision had passed. He saw his way and he meant to walk it. What was beyond the turn was hid from his eyes, but with that he need not concern himself now. Meantime he would clear away some of this accumulated correspondence lying on his desk. In the midst of his work Harry came in and laid a bundle of bills before him.

"Here you are, old chap," he said, quietly. "That's the last of it."

Ranald counted the money.

"You are sure you can spare all this? There is no hurry, you know."

"No," said Harry, "I can't spare it, but it's safer with you than with me, and besides, it's yours. And I owe you more than money." He drew a deep breath to steady himself, and then went on: "And I want to say, Ranald, that I have bet my last stake."

Ranald pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

"Now that's the best thing I've heard for some time," he said, offering Harry his hand; "and that's the last of that business."

He sat down, drew in his chair, and turning over his papers with a nervousness that he rarely showed, he continued: "And, Harry, I want you to do something for me. Before you go home this afternoon, will you come in here? I may want to send a note to Maimie by you."

"But--" began Harry.

"Wait a moment. I want to prevent all possibility of mistake. There may be a reply, and Harry, old chap, I'd rather not answer any questions."

Harry gazed at him a moment in perplexity. "All right, Ranald," he said, quietly, "you can trust me. I haven't the ghost of an idea what's up, but I know you're square."

"Thanks, old fellow," said Ranald, "I will never give you reason to change your opinion. Now get out; I'm awfully busy."

For some minutes after Harry had left the room Ranald sat gazing before him into space.

"Poor chap, he's got his fight, too, but I begin to think he'll win," he said to himself, and once more returned to his work. He had hardly begun his writing when the inner door of his office opened and Mr. St. Clair came in. His welcome was kindly and cordial, and Ranald's heart, which had been under strong discipline all morning, leaped up in warm response.

"You had a pleasant trip, I hope?" inquired Mr. St. Clair.

"Fine most of the way. Through May and June the flies were bad, but not so bad as usual, they said, and one gets used to