Lost! The word cut Minot to the quick. Lost, indeed! Lost Jephson's stake—lost the girl he loved! He had failed Jephson—failed himself! After all he had done—all he had sacrificed. A double defeat, and therefore doubly bitter.
"Cynthia—surely you don't mean—" Lord Harrowby was pleading.
"I do, Allan," said the girl more gently. "It was true—what I told you—there by the window. It is better—father! Will you go down and—say—I'm not to be married, after all?"
Spencer Meyrick nodded, and turned toward the door.
"Cynthia," cried Harrowby brokenly. There was no reply. Old Meyrick went out.
"I'm sorry," his lordship said. "Sorry I made such a mess of it—the more so because I love you, Cynthia—and always shall. Good-by."
He held out his hand. She put hers in it.
"It's too bad, Allan," she said. "But—it wasn't to be. And, even now, you have one consolation—the money that Lloyds must pay you."
"The money means nothing, Cynthia—"
"Miss Meyrick is mistaken," Minot interrupted. "Lord Harrowby has not even that consolation. Lloyds owes him nothing."