The door closed behind him, and Mr. Higgs, still trembling, regained his room and looked in agony at the clock.  It was only half-past twelve and the sun did not rise until six.  He sat and shivered until a second instalment of groans in the next room brought him in desperation to his feet.

Brother Burge was in the toils again, and the jeweller despite his fears could not help realizing what a sensation the story of his temptation would create.  Brother Burge was now going round and round his room like an animal in a cage, and sounds as of a soul wrought almost beyond endurance smote upon the listener’s quivering ear.  Then there was a long silence more alarming even than the noise of the conflict.  Had Brother Burge won, and was he now sleeping the sleep of the righteous, or——­ Mr. Higgs shivered and put his other ear to the wall.  Then he heard his guest move stealthily across the floor; the boards creaked and the handle of the door turned.

Mr. Higgs started, and with a sudden flash of courage born of anger and desperation seized a small brass poker from the fire-place, and taking the candle in his other hand went out on to the landing again.  Brother Burge was closing his door softly, and his face when he turned it upon the jeweller was terrible in its wrath.  His small eyes snapped with fury, and his huge hands opened and shut convulsively.

“What, agin!” he said in a low growl.  “After all I told you!”

Mr. Higgs backed slowly as he advanced.

“No noise,” said Mr. Burge in a dreadful whisper.  “One scream and I’ll—­ What were you going to do with that poker?”

He took a stealthy step forward.

“I—­I,” began the jeweller.  His voice failed him.  “Burglars,” he mouthed, “downstairs.”

“What?” said the other, pausing.

Mr. Higgs threw truth to the winds.  “I heard them in the shop,” he said, recovering, “that’s why I took up the poker.  Can’t you hear them?”

Mr. Burge listened for the fraction of a second.  “Nonsense,” he said huskily.

“I heard them talking,” said the other recklessly.  “Let’s go down and call the police.”

“Call ’em from the winder,” said Brother Burge, backing with some haste, “they might ’ave pistols or something, and they’re ugly customers when they’re disturbed.”

He stood with strained face listening.

“Here they come,” whispered the jeweller with a sudden movement of alarm.

Brother Burge turned, and bolting into his room clapped the door to and locked it.  The jeweller stood dumbfounded on the landing; then he heard the window go up and the voice of Brother Burge, much strengthened by the religious exercises of the past six months, bellowing lustily for the police.