Long habit asserts itself at the strangest moments.  Jethro Bass took his seat by the window, and remained silent.  The clock tolled the half-hour after midnight.

“You wanted to see me,” said Mr. Worthington, finally.

Jethro nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“I suppose,” said Mr. Worthington, slowly, “I suppose you are ready to sell out.”  He found it a little difficult to control his voice.

“Yes,” answered Jethro, “r-ready to sell out.”

Mr. Worthington was somewhat taken aback by this simple admission.  He glanced at Jethro sitting motionless by the window, and in his heart he feared him:  he had come into that room when the gas was low, afraid.  Although he would not confess it to himself, he had been in fear of Jethro Bass all his life, and his fear had been greater than ever since the March day when Jethro had left Coniston.  And could he have known, now, the fires of hatred burning in Jethro’s breast, Isaac Worthington would have been in terror indeed.

“What have you got to sell?” he demanded sharply.

“G-guess you know, or you wouldn’t have come here.”

“What proof have I that you have it to sell?”

Jethro looked at him for an instant.

“M-my word,” he said.

Isaac Worthington was silent for a while:  he was striving to calm himself, for an indefinable something had shaken him.  The strange stillness of the hour and the stranger atmosphere which seemed to surround this transaction filled him with a nameless dread.  The man in the window had been his lifelong enemy:  more than this, Jethro Bass, was not like ordinary men—­his ways were enshrouded in mystery, and when he struck, he struck hard.  There grew upon Isaac Worthington a sense that this midnight hour was in some way to be the culmination of the long years of hatred between them.

He believed Jethro:  he would have believed him even if Mr. Flint had not informed him that afternoon that he was beaten, and bitterly he wished he had taken Mr. Flint’s advice many months before.  Denunciation sprang to his lips which he dared not utter.  He was beaten, and he must pay—­the pound of flesh.  Isaac Worthington almost thought it would be a pound of flesh.

“How much do you want?” he said.

Again Jethro looked at him.

“B-biggest price you can pay,” he answered.

“You must have made up your mind what you want.  You’ve had time enough.”

“H-have made up my mind,” said Jethro.

“Make your demand,” said Mr. Worthington, “and I’ll give you my answer.”

“B-biggest price you can pay,” said Jethro, again.

Mr. Worthington’s nerves could stand it no longer.

“Look here,” he cried, rising in his chair, “if you’ve brought me here to trifle with me, you’ve made a mistake.  It’s your business to get control of things that belong to other people, and sell them out.  I am here to buy.  Nothing but necessity brings me here, and nothing but necessity will keep me here a moment longer than I have to stay to finish this abominable affair.  I am ready to pay you twenty thousand dollars the day that bill becomes a law.”