Tom did not seem inclined to provoke a discussion, and after a little hesitation Yates went into the house and mounted the stairs.
He entered Sybil's chamber abruptly, and found her, as usual, seated in a low chair by the window.
"I want to talk to you a little," he said, "and I expect you to act like a sensible woman."
"Let me hear," she answered.
"It's a short story," said he, bluntly. "To-morrow night, then, a man will stop here loaded with money and dust enough to make us all rich for the rest of our lives."
"Well?" The red lips lost their color, and shut hard together; that cruel light shot into the blue eyes.
"It isn't well," retorted Yates, angrily. "He won't drink, and he won't gamble; so what's to be done? Tom talks about taking the fellow in hand."
"No, no," interrupted Sybil, putting up her hands as if to shut out some horrible object. "I have not forgotten San Francisco—don't talk of it, Philip."
"I knew that would be the way!" he exclaimed. "I was a fool to tell you of it. No woman can be trusted when it comes to the pinch; but that goose, Tom, said you would take it kindly, and be the first to hit on some plan that would settle every thing."
"I will help you as I always have," she said, trembling violently; "but not that—oh! heavens, no."