"I don't know, Fancy. You'd hardly recognize me, these days. I'm losing my sense of humor. I'm becoming a prig, I think."
Fancy laughed. "Well, there's plenty of room in that direction. But I don't think she'd mind your being a devil occasionally. Women don't have to be saints to be thoroughbreds. And there's many a saint that would like to take a day off, once in a while!"
"Have you seen Vixley, lately?"
Fancy grew serious. "No. Is he still working the old man?"
"Yes, I suppose so. I saw him to-day. I offered him a thousand dollars to leave town, Fancy."
Fancy looked up at him with wonder in her eyes. "Why, Frank! What do you mean? A thousand dollars? Why, you haven't got that much, have you?"
"No. Not yet. But I'll get it, somehow."
"You mean—that you're trying—to save Payson—on her account, Frank?"
He avoided her glance. "On her account—and perhaps my own."
Fancy rose impulsively and put her arms about him. "Do let me hug you, Frank, just once!"