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The Baronet looked oddly and stern — so oddly, it seemed to Feltram, that he could not take his eyes off him, and returned his grim and somewhat embarrassed gaze with a stare of alarm and speculation.

And so doing, his step was shortened, and grew slow and slower, and came quite to a stop before he had got far from the door — a wide stretch of that wide floor still intervening between him and Sir Bale, who stood upon the hearthrug, with his heels together and his back to the fire, cane in hand, like a drill-sergeant, facing him.

“Shut that door, please; that will do; come nearer now. I don’t want to bawl what I have to say. Now listen.”

The Baronet cleared his voice and paused, with his eyes upon Feltram.

“It is only two or three days ago,” said he, “that you said you wished you had a hundred pounds. Am I right?”

“Yes; I think so.”

“Think? you know it, sir, devilish well. You said that you wished to get away. I have nothing particular to say against that, more especially now. Do you understand what I say?”