Bill followed the money-lender into the miserable room.  His keen eyes took in the scene in one swift glance.  He saw Jacky kneeling beside the prostrate form of her uncle.  She was not weeping.  Her beautiful face was stonily calm.  She was just looking down at that still form, that drawn gray face, the staring eyes and dropped jaw.  Bill saw and understood.  Lablache might expect no mercy.

The murderer himself was now looking in the direction of—­but not at—­the body of his victim.  He was gazing with eyes which expressed horrified amazement at the sight of the crouching figure of Jacky Allandale.  He was trying to fathom the meaning of her association with Retief.

Bill closed the door.  Now he came forward towards the table, always keeping Lablache in front of him.

“Is he dead?” Bill’s voice was solemn.

Jacky looked up.  There was a look as of stone in her somber eyes.

“He is dead—­dead.”

“Ah!  For the moment we will leave the dead.  Come, let us deal with the living.  It is time for a final reckoning.”

There was a deadly chill in the tone of Bill’s voice—­a chill which was infinitely more dreadful to Lablache’s ears than could any passionate outburst have been.

The door opened gently.  No one noticed it, so absorbed were they in the ghastly matter before them.  Wider the door swung and several dusky faces appeared in the opening.

The money-lender stood motionless.  His gaze ignored the dead.  He watched the living.  He wondered what “Lord” Bill’s preamble portended.  He shook himself like one rousing from some dreadful nightmare.  He summoned his courage and tried to face the consequences of his act with an outward calm.  Struggle as he might a deadly fear was ever present.

It was not the actual fear of death—­it was the moral dread of something intangible.  He feared at that moment not that which was to come.  It was the presence of the dusky-visaged raider and—­the girl.  He feared mostly the icy look on Jacky’s face.  However, his mind was quite clear.  He was watching for a loophole of escape.  And he lost no detail of the scene before him.

A matter which puzzled him greatly was the familiar voice of the raider.  Retief, as he knew him, spoke with a pronounced accent, but now he only heard the ordinary tones of an Englishman.

Bill had purposely abandoned his exaggerated Western drawl.  Now he removed the scarf from his neck and proceeded to wipe the yellow grease from his face and neck.  Lablache, with dismay in his heart, saw the white skin which had been concealed beneath the paint.  The truth flashed upon him instantly.  And before Bill had had time to remove his wig his name had passed the money-lender’s lips.

“Bunning-Ford?” he gasped.  And in that expression was a world of moral fear.

“Yes, Bunning-Ford, come to settle his last reckoning with you.”

Bill eyed the murderer steadily and Lablache felt his last grip on his courage relax.  A terrible fear crept upon him as his courage ebbed.  Slowly Bill turned his eyes in the direction of the still kneeling Jacky.  The girl’s eyes met his, and, in response to some mute understanding which passed between them, she rose to her feet.