‘Are you moving, Jane?’ inquired Mr. Lott, eyeing her curiously.

His daughter looked at him.  She had a comely face, with no little of the paternal character stamped upon it; her knitted brows and sullen eyes bespoke a perturbed humour, and her voice was only just audible.

‘Yes, we are moving, father.’

Mr. Lott’s heavy footfall crossed the floor.  He planted himself before her, his hands resting on his stick.

‘What’s the matter, Jane?  Where’s Bowles?’

‘He left town yesterday.  He’ll be back to-morrow, I think.’

‘You’ve had the brokers in the house—­isn’t that it, eh?’

Mrs. Bowles made no answer, but her head sank again, and a trembling of her shoulders betrayed the emotion with which she strove.  Knowing that Jane would tell of her misfortunes only when and how she chose, the father turned away and stood for a minute or two at the window; then he asked abruptly whether there was not such a thing as a chair in the house.  Mrs. Bowles, who had been on the point of speaking, bade him come to another room.  It was the dining-room, but all the appropriate furniture had vanished:  a couple of bedroom chairs and a deal table served for present necessities.  Here, when they had both sat down, Mrs. Bowles found courage to break the silence.

’Arthur doesn’t know of it.  He went away yesterday morning, and the men came in the afternoon.  He had a promise—­a distinct promise—­that this shouldn’t be done before the end of the month.  By then he hoped to have money.’

‘Who’s the creditor?’ inquired Mr. Lott, with a searching look at her face.

Mrs. Bowles was mute, her eyes cast down.

‘Is it Charles Daffy?’

Still his daughter kept silence.

‘I thought so,’ said the timber-merchant, and clumped on the floor with his stick.  ’You’d better tell me all about it, Jane.  I know something already.  Better let us talk it over, my girl, and see what can be done.’

He waited a moment.  Then his daughter tried to speak, with difficulty overcame a sob, and at length began her story.  She would not blame her husband.  He had been unlucky in speculations, and was driven to a money-lender—­his acquaintance, Charles Daffy.  This man, a heartless rascal, had multiplied charges and interest on a small sum originally borrowed, until it became a crushing debt.  He held a bill of sale on most of their furniture, and yesterday, as if he knew of Bowles’s absence, had made the seizure; he was within his legal rights, but had led the debtor to suppose that he would not exercise them.  Thus far did Jane relate, in a hard matter-of-fact voice, but with many nervous movements.  Her father listened in grim silence, and, when she ceased, appeared to reflect.

‘That’s your story!’ he said of a sudden.  ’Now, what about the horse-racing?’

‘I know nothing of horse-racing,’ was the cold reply.