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Voles hesitated, then, with a laugh, he took the cheque book from the breast pocket of his overcoat.

“Now tear out a cheque.”

“Tear out a cheque,” cried the other. “What on earth are you getting at—one of my cheques—this is good.”

“Tear out a cheque,” insisted the other, “it will only cost you a penny, and you will see my meaning in a moment.”

The animal, before the insistent direction of the other, hesitated, then with a laugh he tore out a cheque.

“Now place it on the table.”

Voles placed it on the table.

Jones going to the bureau fetched a pen and ink. He pushed a chair to the table, and made the other sit down.

“Now,” said Jones, “write me out a cheque for eight thousand pounds.”

Voles threw the pen down with a laugh—it was his last in that room.

“You won’t?” said Jones.

“Oh, quit this fooling,” replied the other. “I’ve no time for such stuff—what are you doing now?”

“Ringing the bell,” said Jones.

Voles, just about to pick up the cheque, paused. He seemed to find himself at fault for a moment. The jungle beast, that hears the twig crack beneath the foot of the man with the express rifle, pauses like that over his bloody meal on the carcass of the decoy goat.