Queed’s gaze was more formidable than his own.  “Mr. Surface,” he said, in a peculiarly quiet voice, “you forget yourself strangely.  You are in no position to speak to me like this.”

Surface appeared suddenly to agree with him.  He fell back into his chair and dropped his face into his hands.

Queed, standing where he was, watched him across the tiny dinner-table and, against his reason, felt very sorry.  How humiliating this ripping up of old dishonor was to the proud old man, rogue though he was, he understood well enough.  From nobody in the world but him, he knew, would Surface ever have suffered it to proceed as far as this, and this knowledge made him want to handle the knife with as little roughness as possible.

“I—­was wrong,” said the muffled voice.  “I ask your forgiveness for my outbreak.”

“You have it.”

Surface straightened himself up, and, by an obvious effort, managed to recapture something like his usual smoothness of voice and manner.

“Will you be good enough to sit down?  I will tell you what you wish.”

“Certainly.  Thank you.”

Queed resumed his seat.  His face was a little pale, but otherwise just as usual.  Inwardly, after the moment of critical uncertainty, he was shaken by a tempest of fierce exultation.  His club, after all, was going to be strong enough; the old man would give up the money rather than give up him.

Surface picked up his cigarette.  All his storm signals had disappeared as by magic.

“I did manage,” began the old man, flicking off his ash with an admirable effect of calm, “to save a small nest-egg from the wreck, to keep me from the poorhouse in my old age.  I did not wish to tell you this because, with your lack of acquaintance with business methods, the details would only confuse, and possibly mislead, you.  I had, too, another reason for wishing to keep it a surprise.  You have forced me, against my preferences, to tell you.  As to this small pittance,” he said, without the flicker of an eye-lash, “any court in the country would tell you that it is fairly and honorably mine.”

“Thank you.  I appreciate your telling me this.”  Queed leaned over the table, and began speaking in a quiet, brisk voice.  “Now, then, here is the situation.  You have a certain sum of money put away somewhere, estimated to be not less than a hundred thousand dollars—­”

“Nothing of the sort!  Far less than that!  A few beggarly thousands, which—­”

“Very well—­a few thousands.  Of course your books will readily show the exact figures.  This money was withheld at the time your affairs were settled, and therefore was not applied to reducing the—­the loss on the trustee account.  Of course, if its existence had been known, it would have been so applied.  In other words, the Weyland estate has been deprived to the exact extent of the sum withheld.  Fortunately, it is never too late to correct an error of this sort.  My idea is that we should make the restitution without the loss of an unnecessary day.”