He unlocked the iron door, and lit the hanging lamp that was used in all-night sittings on steamer days.  It revealed a smartly furnished office, with a high desk for his clerks, and a smaller one for himself in one corner.  In the centre of the wall stood a large safe.  This he also unlocked and took out a few important books, as well as a small drawer containing gold coin and dust to the amount of about five hundred dollars, the large balance having been deposited in bank on the previous day.  The act was only precautionary, as he did not exhibit any haste in removing them to a place of safety, and remained meditatively absorbed in looking over a packet of papers taken from the same drawer.  The closely shuttered building, almost hermetically sealed against light, and perhaps sound, prevented his observing the steadily increasing light of the conflagration, or hearing the nearer tumult of the firemen, and the invasion of his quiet district by other equally solicitous tenants.  The papers seemed also to possess some importance, for, the stillness being suddenly broken by the turning of the handle of the heavy door he had just closed, and its opening with difficulty, his first act was to hurriedly conceal them, without apparently paying a thought to the exposed gold before him.  And his expression and attitude in facing round towards the door was quite as much of nervous secretiveness as of indignation at the interruption.

Yet the intruder appeared, though singular, by no means formidable.  He was a man slightly past the middle age, with a thin face, hollowed at the cheeks and temples as if by illness or asceticism, and a grayish beard that encircled his throat like a soiled worsted “comforter” below his clean-shaven chin and mouth.  His manner was slow and methodical, and even when he shot the bolt of the door behind him, the act did not seem aggressive.  Nevertheless Mr. Farendell half rose with his hand on his pistol-pocket, but the stranger merely lifted his own hand with a gesture of indifferent warning, and, drawing a chair towards him, dropped into it deliberately.

Mr. Farendell’s angry stare changed suddenly to one of surprised recognition.  “Josh Scranton,” he said hesitatingly.

“I reckon,” responded the stranger slowly.  “That’s the name I allus bore, and you called yourself Farendell.  Well, we ain’t seen each other sens the spring o’ ’50, when ye left me lying nigh petered out with chills and fever on the Stanislaus River, and sold the claim that me and Duffy worked under our very feet, and skedaddled for ’Frisco!”

“I only exercised my right as principal owner, and to secure my advances,” began the late Mr. Farendell sharply.

But again the thin hand was raised, this time with a slow, scornful waiving of any explanations.  “It ain’t that in partickler that I’ve kem to see ye for to-night,” said the stranger slowly, “nor it ain’t about your takin’ the name o’ ‘Farendell,’ that friend o’ yours who died on the passage here with ye, and whose papers ye borrowed!  Nor it ain’t on account o’ that wife of yours ye left behind in Missouri, and whose letters you never answered.  It’s them things all together—­and suthin’ else!”