“I haven’t my check-book with me. I will send you a check for ten thousand on account to-morrow morning.”
Reben laughed wildly at him. Bret took out his card-case. There was a small gold pencil on his key-chain. He wrote a few words and handed the card to Reben:
| I O U $100,000 |
| Mr. Bret Winfield |
| Bret Winfield |
Reben tossed his mane in scorn.
Bret answered: “It is a debt of honor. I’m able to pay it and I will.”
Reben stared up into the man’s cold eyes, looked down at the card, tightened his mouth, put the card into his pocketbook, and snarled:
“Honor! We’ll see. Now get out—both of you!”
Winfield accepted the dismissal with a smile of pride, and, turning, took Sheila’s arm and led her away.
“Oh, Bret! Bret!” she moaned.
“Don’t you worry, honey. You’re worth it,” he laughed.