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He shut the door.

“Well,” said he, “have you got the money for me?”

Another man in Jones’ position might have asked, and with reason. “What money?”

Jones simply said “No.”

This simple answer had a wonderful effect. Voles, about to take a seat, remained standing, clasping the back of the chair he had chosen. Then he burst out.

“You fooled me yesterday, and gave me an appointment for to-day. I called, you were out.”

“Was I?”

“Were you? You said the money would be here waiting for me—well, here I am now, I’ve got a cab outside ready to take it.”

“And suppose I don’t give it to you?” asked Jones.

“We won’t suppose any nonsense like that!” replied Voles taking his seat, “not so long as there are policemen to be called at a minute’s notice.”

“That’s true,” said the other, “we don’t want the police.”

“You don’t,” replied Voles. He was staring at Jones. The Earl of Rochester’s voice struck him as not quite the same as usual, more spring in it and vitality—altered in fact. But he suspected nothing of the truth. Passed as good coin by Voles, Jones had nothing to fear from any man or woman in London, for the eye of Voles was unerring, the ear of Voles ditto, the mind of Voles balanced like a jeweller’s scales.