Isaac threw open the door of their apartments.

“Get in,” he ordered.  “I’ll have an end put to it, Ruth.  Look at him!” he cried, mockingly, pointing to Arnold’s evening clothes.  “What sort of a friend is that, do you think, for us?  He wears the fetters of his class.  He is a hanger-on at the tables of our enemies.”

“You can abuse me as much as you like,” Arnold replied, calmly, “and I shall still believe that I am an honest man.  Are you, Isaac?”

Isaac’s eyes flashed venom.

“Honesty!  What is honesty?” he snarled.  “What is it, I ask you?  Is the millionaire honest who keeps the laws because he has no call to break them?  Is that honesty?  Is he a better man than the father who steals to feed his hungry children?  Is the one honest and the other a thief?  You smug hypocrite!”

Arnold was silent for a moment.  It flashed into his mind that here, from the other side, came very nearly the same doctrine as Sabatini had preached to him across his rose-shaded dining table.

“It is too late to argue with you, Isaac,” he said, pleasantly.  “Besides, I think that you and I are too far apart.  But you must leave me Ruth for my little friend.  She would be lonely without me, and I can do her no harm.”

Isaac opened his lips,—­lips that were set in an ugly sneer—­but he met the steady fire of Arnold’s eyes, and the words he would have spoken remained unsaid.

“Get to your room, then,” he ordered.

He passed on as though to enter his own apartments.  Then suddenly he stopped and listened.  There was the sound of a footstep, a heavy, marching footstep, coming along the Terrace below.  With another look now upon his face, he slunk to the window and peered down.  The footsteps came nearer and nearer, and Arnold could hear him breathing like a hunted animal.  Then they passed, and he stood up, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“I have been hurrying,” he muttered, half apologetically.  “We had a crowded meeting.  Good night!”

He turned into his rooms and closed the door.  Arnold looked after him for a moment and then up the street below.  When he turned into his own rooms, he was little enough inclined for sleep.  He drew up his battered chair to the window, threw it open, and sat looking out.  The bridge and the river were alike silent now.  The sky signs had gone, the murky darkness blotted out the whole scene, against which the curving arc of lights shone with a fitful, ghostly light.  For a moment his fancy served him an evil trick.  He saw the barge with the blood-red sails.  A cargo of evil beings thronged its side.  He saw their faces leering at him.  Sabatini was there, standing at the helm, calm and scornful.  There was the dead man and Isaac, Groves the butler, Fenella herself—­pale as death, her hands clasping at her bosom as though in pain.  Arnold turned, shivering, away; his head sank into his hands.  It seemed to him that poison had crept into those dreams.