He was, in reality, afraid that “something would happen” to the old man.  His sudden loss of memory, his loss of self-control when he spoke of his bankruptcy, the confusion of his words, told clearly of a mind unhinged.  He could not go away and leave Iris with no better protection than one other weak old man.

He remained, but Iris sat with him, and in the silent watches of the night they talked about the future.

Under every roof are those who talk about the future, and those who think about the past; so the shadow of death is always with us and the sunshine of life.  Not without reason is the Roman Catholic altar incomplete without a bone of some dead man.  As for the thing which had been stolen, that affected them but little.  What does it matter—­the loss of what was promised but five minutes since?

It was one o’clock in the morning when Lala Roy left them.  They sat at the window, hand-in-hand, and talked.  The street below them was very quiet; now and then a late cab broke the silence, or the tramp of a policeman; but there were no other sounds.  They sat in darkness because they wanted no light.  The hours sped too swiftly for them.  At five the day began to dawn.

“Iris,” said Arnold, “leave me now, and try to sleep a little.  Shall we ever forget this night of sweet and tender talk?”

When she was gone, he began to be aware of footsteps overhead in the old man’s room.  What was he going to do?  Arnold waited at the door.  Presently the door opened, and he heard careful steps upon the stairs.  They were the steps of Mr. Emblem himself.  He was fully dressed, with his usual care and neatness, his black silk stock buckled behind, and his white hair brushed.

“Ah, Mr. Arbuthnot,” he said cheerfully, “you are early this morning!” as if it was quite a usual thing for his friends to look in at six in the morning.

“You are going down to the shop, Mr. Emblem?”

“Yes, certainly—­to the shop.  Pray come with me.”

Arnold followed him.

“I have just remembered,” said the old man, “that last night we did not look on the floor.  I will have one more search for the letter, and then, if I cannot find it, I will write it all out—­every word.  There is not much, to be sure, but the story is told without the names.”

“Tell me the story, Mr. Emblem, while you remember it.”

“All in good time, young man.  Youth is impatient.”

He drew up the blind and let in the morning light; then he began his search for the letter on the floor, going on his hands and knees, and peering under the table and chairs with a candle.  At length he desisted.