“Forgive me,” laughed Philip, “but that is the speech of a very young man.  Why, eliminate money, and you take away the principal interest of life, and destroy the social fabric of the world.  What is power but money, comfort?—­money, social consideration?—­money, ay, and love, and health, and happiness itself?  Money, money, money.  Tell me,” he went on, rising, and addressing him with a curious earnestness, “what god is there more worthy of our adoration than Plutus, seeing that, if we worship him enough, he alone of the idols we set in high places, will never fail us at need?”

“It is a worship that rarely brings lasting happiness with it.  In our greed to collect the means of enjoyment, surely we lose the power to enjoy?”

“Pshaw! that is the cant of fools, of those who do not know, of those who cannot feel.  But I know and I feel, and I tell you that it is not so.  The collection of those means is in itself a pleasure, because it gives a consciousness of power.  Don’t talk to me of Fate; that sovereign” (throwing the coin on to the table) “is Fate’s own seal.  You see me, for instance, apparently poor and helpless, a social pariah, one to be avoided, and even insulted.  Good; before long these will right all that for me.  I shall by their help be powerful and courted yet.  Ay, believe me, Heigham, money is a living moving force; leave it still, and it accumulates; expend it, and it gratifies every wish; save it, and that is best of all, and you hold in your hand a lever that will lift the world.  I tell you that there is no height to which it cannot bring you, no gulf it will not bridge you.”

“Except,” soliloquized Arthur, “the cliffs of the Hereafter, and—­the grave.”

His words produced a curious effect.  Philip’s eloquence broke off short, and for a moment a great fear crept into his eyes.

Silence ensued which neither of them seemed to care to break.  Meanwhile the wind suddenly sprang up, and began to moan and sigh amongst the half-clad boughs of the trees outside—­making, Arthur thought to himself, a very melancholy music.  Presently Philip laid his hand upon his guest’s arm, and he felt that it shook like an aspen-leaf.

“Tell me,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “what do you see there?”

Arthur started, and followed the direction of his eyes to the bare wall opposite the window, at that end of the room through which the door was made.

“I see,” he said, “some moving shadows.”

“What do they resemble?”

“I don’t know; nothing in particular.  What are they?”

“What are they?” hissed Philip, whose face was livid with terror, “they are the shades of the dead sent here to torture me.  Look, she goes to meet him; the old man is telling her.  Now she will wring her hands.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Caresfoot, nonsense,” said Arthur, shaking himself together; “I see nothing of the sort.  Why, it is only the shadows flung by the moonlight through the swinging boughs of that tree.  Cut it down, and you will have no more writing upon your wall.”