Meanwhile the steps were already on the landing at the top of the stairs, and Shorthouse, still sitting upright in bed, heard a heavy body brush past his door and along the wall outside, almost immediately afterwards the loud knocking of someone’s knuckles on the door of the adjoining room.

Instantly, though so far not a sound had proceeded from within, he heard, through the thin partition, a chair pushed back and a man quickly cross the floor and open the door.

“Ah! it’s you,” he heard in the son’s voice.  Had the fellow, then, been sitting silently in there all this time, waiting for his father’s arrival?  To Shorthouse it came not as a pleasant reflection by any means.

There was no answer to this dubious greeting, but the door was closed quickly, and then there was a sound as if a bag or parcel had been thrown on a wooden table and had slid some distance across it before stopping.

“What’s that?” asked the son, with anxiety in his tone.

“You may know before I go,” returned the other gruffly.  Indeed his voice was more than gruff:  it betrayed ill-suppressed passion.

Shorthouse was conscious of a strong desire to stop the conversation before it proceeded any further, but somehow or other his will was not equal to the task, and he could not get out of bed.  The conversation went on, every tone and inflexion distinctly audible above the noise of the storm.

In a low voice the father continued.  Jim missed some of the words at the beginning of the sentence.  It ended with:  " . . . but now they’ve all left, and I’ve managed to get up to you.  You know what I’ve come for.”  There was distinct menace in his tone.

“Yes,” returned the other; “I have been waiting.”

“And the money?” asked the father impatiently.

No answer.

“You’ve had three days to get it in, and I’ve contrived to stave off the worst so far—­but to-morrow is the end.”

No answer.

“Speak, Otto!  What have you got for me?  Speak, my son; for God’s sake, tell me.”

There was a moment’s silence, during which the old man’s vibrating accents seemed to echo through the rooms.  Then came in a low voice the answer—­

“I have nothing.”

“Otto!” cried the other with passion, “nothing!”

“I can get nothing,” came almost in a whisper.

“You lie!” cried the other, in a half-stifled voice.  “I swear you lie.  Give me the money.”

A chair was heard scraping along the floor.  Evidently the men had been sitting over the table, and one of them had risen.  Shorthouse heard the bag or parcel drawn across the table, and then a step as if one of the men was crossing to the door.