When the door of Gurneys’, the moneylenders, opened to his touch, and drew him abruptly from his speculations, his first emotion was a quick irritation that chance should interfere with his thoughts.  But when his lantern showed him that the lock had been tampered with, his annoyance changed to a thrill of hopeful excitement.  What if this were the way out?  What if fate had granted him compromise, the opportunity of pitting his official virtue against official crime, those shadowy forces in the existence of which he did not believe, but which lay on his life like clouds?

He was not a physical coward, and it seemed quite simple to him to creep quietly through the open door into the silent office without waiting for possible reinforcements.  He knew that the safe, which would be the, natural goal of the presumed burglars, was in Mr. Gurney’s private office beyond, and while he stood listening intently he seemed to hear dim sounds coming from the direction of that room.  For a moment he paused, frowning slightly as a man does when he is trying to catalogue an impression.  When he achieved perception, it came oddly mingled with recollections of the little tragedies of his children at home.  For some one was crying like a child in the little room where Mr. Gurney brow-beat recalcitrant borrowers.  Dangerous burglars do not weep, and Bennett hesitated no longer, but stepped past the open flaps of the counter, and threw open the door of the inner office.

The electric light had been switched on, and at the table there sat a slight young man with his face buried in his hands, crying bitterly.  Behind him the safe stood open and empty, and the grate was filled with smouldering embers of burnt paper.  Bennett went up to the young man and placed his hand on his shoulder.  But the young man wept on and did not move.

Try as he might Bennett could not help relaxing the grip of outraged law, and patting the young man’s shoulder soothingly as it rose and fell.  He had no fit weapons of roughness and oppression with which to oppose this child-like grief; he could only fight tears with tears.

“Come,” he said gently, “you must pull yourself together.”

At the sound of his voice the young man gave a great sob and then was silent, shivering a little.

“That’s better,” said Bennett encouragingly, “much better.”

“I have burnt everything,” the young man said suddenly, “and now the place is empty.  I was nearly sick just now.”

Bennett looked at him sympathetically, as one dreamer may look at another, who is sad with action dreamed too often for scatheless accomplishment.  “I’m afraid you’ll get into serious trouble,” he said.

“I know,” replied the young man, “but that blackguard Gurney—­” His voice rose to a shrill scream and choked him for a moment.  Then he went on quietly “But it’s all over now.  Finished!  Done with!”

“I suppose you owed him money?”