A part of this conversation took place in the hall, into which the hackman had borne the travellers’ luggage.  A pull was heard at the door bell—­a loud, confident pull—­which Mr. Whedell knew could be inflicted only by a creditor.  It would not do to admit his son-in-law into his budget of family secrets just yet.  So he said: 

“Now, Chiffield, you must need some rest.  Let me not detain you, my dear fellow.  Your room is on the first floor.  I’ll show it to you.”

Mr. Whedell snatched a carpet bag out of the hand of his son-in-law, and hurried up stairs with him.  Having turned that gentleman into the apartment reserved for him, and shut the door, Mr. Whedell paused at the head of the stairs, and listened for the developments below.  The servant, after waiting for two or three more jerks at the bell, so as to be quite sure that it was the bell, went to the door, and there found Mr. Numble, the butcher, who supplied the Whedells with meat on the strength of the brownstone front.

Pursuant to instructions, the servant explained that Mr. Whedell was not up, and asked him to walk into the library and wait a few minutes.  Mr. Numble growled—­as if he scented deception not far off—­but allowed himself to be conducted into the library.  There he discovered Mr. Rickarts, the shoemaker, taking down the few books which graced the shelves of the library, and evidently pricing them with an unpractised eye.  The two gentlemen knew each other, and straightway engaged in a brisk dialogue about the weather.

CHAPTER V.

DEMOLITION OF CERTAIN AIR CASTLES.

The coast being clear, Mr. Whedell hastened down stairs to the front parlor, where his daughter had secluded herself immediately after her entrance into the house.  She was lying back on the sofa, with her bonnet on, biting the ends of her gloves, and staring into space.  She did not appear to observe her father.

Mr. Whedell seated himself on the other end of the sofa, and reached out his hand, as if he would have taken his daughter’s caressingly within it.  If that was his intention, it was frustrated by her drawing the hand away.  Then the father heaved a sigh, and said: 

“Ah, my child, I am so thankful that you have returned to-day.  You will save us from ruin.”

“I save you from ruin!” said Mrs. Chiffield, in a hollow voice.  “That’s a good joke!”

Mr. Whedell grinned a ghastly smile, as if he did not precisely see the point of the jest.  “Joke or no joke,” said he, “I must look to you for some money to put off the infernal creditors, who have begun to flock into the house.  There’s the bell.  Hang me, if it isn’t another one!  To come to the point, then, I wish you would loan me, say two hundred dollars.  It is a small amount, but will stave them off a week or two.”

“Two hundred dollars!” Mrs. Chiffield opened her fine eyes in amazement.