“What do you want—­whatever will satisfy you?” asked Stevens.  “If I give you ever so much now, what guarantee have I that you’ll not return in a month or so, and want as much more?”

“I’ll pledge ye me honour,” said McCloskey, grandly.

“Your honour!” rejoined Stevens, “that is no security.”

“Security or no security,” said McCloskey, impatiently, “you’ll have to give me the money—­it’s not a bit of use now this disputin, bekase ye see I’m bound to have it, and ye are wise enough to know ye’d better give it to me.  What if ye have give me thousands upon thousands,” continued he, his former good-humoured expression entirely vanishing; “it’s nothing more than you ought to do for keeping yer secrets for ye—­and as long as ye have money, ye may expect to share it with me:  so make me out a good heavy cheque, and say no more about it.”

“What do you call a heavy cheque?” asked Stevens, in a despairing tone.

“Five or six thousand,” coolly answered his visitor.

“Five or six thousand!” echoed Mr. Stevens, “it is impossible.”

“It had better not be,” said McCloskey, looking angry; “it had better not be—­I’m determined not to be leading a beggar’s life, and you to be a rolling in wealth.”

“I can’t give it, and won’t give it—­if it must come to that,” answered Stevens, desperately.  “It is you that have the fortune—­I am only your banker at this rate.  I can’t give it to you—­I haven’t got that much money.”

“You must find it then, and pretty quick at that,” said McCloskey.  “I’m not to be fooled with—­I came here for money, and I must and will have it.”

“I am willing to do what is reasonable,” rejoined Mr. Stevens, in a more subdued tone.  “You talk of thousands as most men do of hundreds.  I really haven’t got it.”

“Oh, bother such stuff as that,” interrupted McCloskey, incredulously.  “I don’t believe a word of it—­I’ve asked them that know, and every one says you’ve made a mint of money by speculation—­that since ye sold out in the South and came here to live, there’s no end to the money ye’ve made; so you see it don’t do to be making a poor mouth to me.  I’ve come here for a check for five thousand dollars, and shan’t go away without it,” concluded he, in a loud and threatening tone.

During this conversation, Lizzie Stevens had been standing at the door, momentarily expecting a recall to the apartment.  She heard the low rumble of their voices, but could not distinguish words.  At length, hearing McCloskey’s raised to a higher key, she could no longer restrain her impatience, and gently opening the door, looked into the room.  Both their faces were turned in the opposite direction, so that neither noticed the gentle intrusion of Lizzie, who, fearing to leave her father longer alone, ventured into the apartment.

“You need not stand looking at me in that threatening manner.  You may do as you please—­go tell what you like; but remember, when I fall, so do you; I have not forgotten that affair in Philadelphia from which I saved you—­don’t place me in a situation that will compel me to recur to it to your disadvantage.”  “Ah, don’t trouble yerself about that, squire; I don’t—­that is entirely off my mind; for now Whitticar is dead, where is yer witnesses?”