“I haven’t any fear at all of the ultimate ‘making good,’” replied Phil. “I have always known that it would come sooner or later. It has never been merely a hope with me, it has been an inward knowledge since I was quite a little chap.”
“Why then, that knowledge, backed by your every endeavour, cannot fail to realise great success for you. It is fear of failure that kills so many successful ventures before their birth. Without fear––which is at best a cowardly bugaboo, the world would be heaven.”
“Well,––heaven is where the devil isn’t,” said Phil, “so fear must be the very devil himself.”
“Fear is the only devil I know,” asserted Eileen.
“I am afraid I have the misfortune to be acquainted with quite a lot of other little devils,” he laughed.
They crossed the road together, along the west-end of Mayor Brenchfield’s local ranch and town house, which was divided from the new Royce Pederstone property by the big house and grounds which that eccentric Englishman, Percival DeRue Hannington, had bought for himself and now occupied in lordly bachelordom.
Several of Brenchfield’s stables and out-houses were situated quite close to the roadway.
In passing, Phil observed a faint light in one of these, which swung as if in the hands of someone moving about.
As they continued along, he fancied he heard the sound of voices, one of which rose and fell as if in anger.