“Quite right; that’s it exactly,” said Holcombe, with cheerful alacrity.  “I’m glad you have grasped the situation so soon.  That makes it easier for me.  Now, what I have been trying to tell you is this.  I received a letter about you to-night.  It seems that before leaving New York you converted bonds and mortgages belonging to Miss Martha Field, which she had intrusted to you, into ready money.  And that you took this money with you.  Now, as this is the first place you have stopped since leaving New York, except Gibraltar, where you could not have banked it, you must have it with you now, here in this town, in this hotel, possibly in this room.  What else you have belonging to other poor devils and corporations does not concern me.  It’s yours as far as I mean to do anything about it.  But this sixty thousand dollars which belongs to Miss Field, who is the best, purest, and kindest woman I have ever known, and who has given away more money than you ever stole, is going back with me to-morrow to New York.”  Holcombe leaned forward as he spoke, and rapped with his knuckles on the table.  Allen confronted him in amazement, in which there was not so much surprise at what the other threatened to do as at the fact that it was he who had proposed doing it.

“I don’t understand,” he said, slowly, with the air of a bewildered child.

“It’s plain enough,” replied the other, impatiently.  “I tell you I want sixty thousand dollars of the money you have with you.  You can understand that, can’t you?”

“But how?” expostulated Allen.  “You don’t mean to rob me, do you, Harry?” he asked with a laugh.

“You’re a very stupid person for so clever a one,” Holcombe said, impatiently.  “You must give me sixty thousand dollars—­and if you don’t, I’ll take it.  Come, now, where is it—­in that box?” He pointed with his finger toward a square travelling-case covered with black leather that stood open on the table filled with papers and blue envelopes.

“Take it!” exclaimed Allen.  “You, Henry Holcombe?  Is it you who are speaking?  Do I hear you?” He looked at Holcombe with eyes full of genuine wonder and a touch of fear.  As he spoke his hand reached out mechanically and drew the leather-bound box toward him.

“Ah, it is in that box, then,” said Holcombe, in a quiet, grave tone.  “Now count it out, and be quick.”

“Are you drunk?” cried the other, fiercely.  “Do you propose to turn highwayman and thief?  What do you mean?” Holcombe reached quickly across the table toward the box, but the other drew it back, snapping the lid down, and hugging it close against his breast.  “If you move, Holcombe,” he cried, in a voice of terror and warning, “I’ll call the people of the house and—­and expose you.”

“Expose me, you idiot,” returned Holcombe, fiercely.  “How dare you talk to me like that!”