upstairs?"

"Ay!" the man answered, shuffling away. "Pay 'is rent, and yer can chuck
'im out of the winder, if yer like!"

They climbed the crazy staircase. Fardell opened the door of the room
above without even the formality of knocking. An old man sat there,
bending over a table, half dressed. Before him were several sheets of
paper.

"I believe we're in time," Fardell muttered, half to himself. "Parkins,
is that you?" he asked, in a louder tone.

The old man looked up and blinked at them. He shaded his eyes with one
hand. The other he laid flat upon the papers before him. He was old,
blear-eyed, unkempt.

"Is that Master Ronaldson?" he asked, in a thin, quavering tone. "I've
signed 'em, sir. Have yer brought the money? I'm a poor old man, and I
need a drop of something now and then to keep the life in me. If yer'll
just hand over a trifle I'll send out for--eh--eh, my landlord, he's a
kindly man--he'll fetch it. Eh? Two of yer! I don't see so well as I
did. Is that you, Mr. Ronaldson, sir?"

Fardell threw some silver coins upon the table. The old man snatched them
up eagerly.

"It's not Mr. Ronaldson," he said, "but I daresay we shall do as well. We
want to talk to you about those papers there."

The old man nodded. He was gazing at the silver in his hand.

"I've writ it all out," he muttered. "I told 'un I would. A pound a week
for ten years. That's what I 'ad! And then it stopped! Did she mean me to
starve, eh? Not I! John Parkins knows better nor that. I've writ it all
out, and there's my signature. It's gospel truth, too."

"We are going to buy the truth from you," Fardell said. "We have more
money than Ronaldson. Don't be afraid. We have gold to spare where
Ronaldson had silver."

The old man lifted the candle with shaking fingers. Then it dropped with
a crash to the ground, and lay there for a moment spluttering. He shrank
back.

"It's 'im!" he muttered. "Don't kill me, sir. I mean you no harm. It's
Mr. Mannering!"

CHAPTER V

THE JOURNALIST INTERVENES

The old man had sunk into a seat. His face and hands were twitching with
fear. His eyes, as though fascinated, remained fixed upon Mannering's.
All the while he mumbled to himself. Fardell drew Mannering a little on
one side.

"What can we do with him?" he asked. "We might tear up those sheets, give
him money, keep him soddened with drink. And even then he'd give the
whole show away the moment any one got at him. It isn't so bad as