“Sylvanus Heythorp, Esq.”

Having sent this missive, and arranged in his mind the damning, if circumstantial, evidence he had accumulated, he awaited the hour with confidence, for his nature was not lacking in the cock-surety of a Briton.  All the same, he dressed himself particularly well that morning, putting on a blue and white striped waistcoat which, with a cream-coloured tie, set off his fulvous whiskers and full blue eyes; and he lunched, if anything, more fully than his wont, eating a stronger cheese and taking a glass of special Club ale.  He took care to be late, too, to show the old fellow that his coming at all was in the nature of an act of grace.  A strong scent of hyacinths greeted him in the hall; and Mr. Ventnor, who was an amateur of flowers, stopped to put his nose into a fine bloom and think uncontrollably of Mrs. Larne.  Pity!  The things one had to give up in life—­fine women—­one thing and another.  Pity!  The thought inspired in him a timely anger; and he followed the servant, intending to stand no nonsense from this paralytic old rascal.

The room he entered was lighted by a bright fire, and a single electric lamp with an orange shade on a table covered by a black satin cloth.  There were heavily gleaming oil paintings on the walls, a heavy old brass chandelier without candles, heavy dark red curtains, and an indefinable scent of burnt acorns, coffee, cigars, and old man.  He became conscious of a candescent spot on the far side of the hearth, where the light fell on old Heythorp’s thick white hair.

“Mr. Ventnor, sir.”

The candescent spot moved.  A voice said:  “Sit down.”

Mr. Ventnor sat in an armchair on the opposite side of the fire; and, finding a kind of somnolence creeping over him, pinched himself.  He wanted all his wits about him.

The old man was speaking in that extinct voice of his, and Mr. Ventnor said rather pettishly: 

“Beg pardon, I don’t get you.”

Old Heythorp’s voice swelled with sudden force: 

“Your letters are Greek to me.”

“Oh! indeed, I think we can soon make them into plain English!”

“Sooner the better.”

Mr. Ventnor passed through a moment of indecision.  Should he lay his cards on the table?  It was not his habit, and the proceeding was sometimes attended with risk.  The knowledge, however, that he could always take them up again, seeing there was no third person here to testify that he had laid them down, decided him, and he said: 

“Well, Mr. Heythorp, the long and short of the matter is this:  Our friend Mr. Pillin paid you a commission of ten per cent. on the sale of his ships.  Oh! yes.  He settled the money, not on you, but on your relative Mrs. Larne and her children.  This, as you know, is a breach of trust on your part.”

The old man’s voice:  “Where did you get hold of that cock-and-bull story?” brought him to his feet before the fire.