ble something had shaken him. The strange
stillness of the hour and the stranger atmosphere which seemed to
surround this transaction filled him with a nameless dread. The man in
the window had been his lifelong enemy: more than this, Jethro Bass, was
not like ordinary men--his ways were enshrouded in mystery, and when he
struck, he struck hard. There grew upon Isaac Worthington a sense that
this midnight hour was in some way to be the culmination of the long
years of hatred between them.

He believed Jethro: he would have believed him even if Mr. Flint had not
informed him that afternoon that he was beaten, and bitterly he wished
he had taken Mr. Flint's advice many months before. Denunciation
sprang to his lips which he dared not utter. He was beaten, and he must
pay--the pound of flesh. Isaac Worthington almost thought it would be a
pound of flesh.

"How much do you want?" he said.

Again Jethro looked at him.

"B-biggest price you can pay," he answered.

"You must have made up your mind what you want. You've had time enough."

"H-have made up my mind," said Jethro.

"Make your demand," said Mr. Worthington, "and I'll give you my answer."

"B-biggest price you can pay," said Jethro, again.

Mr. Worthington's nerves could stand it no longer.

"Look here," he cried, rising in his chair, "if you've brought me here
to trifle with me, you've made a mistake. It's your business to get
control of things that belong to other people, and sell them out. I
am here to buy. Nothing but necessity brings me here, and nothing but
necessity will keep me here a moment longer than I have to stay to
finish this abominable affair. I am ready to pay you twenty thousand
dollars the day that bill becomes a law."

This time Jethro did not look at him.

"P-pay me now," he said.

"I will pay you the day the bill becomes a law. Then I shall know where
I stand."

Jethro did not answer this ultimatum in any manner, but remained
perfectly still looking out of the window. Mr. Worthington glanced at
him, twice, and got his fingers on the brim of his hat, but he did not
pick it up. He stood so for a while, knowing full well that if he went
out of that room his chance was gone. Consolidation might come in other
years, but he, Isaac Worthington, would not be a factor in it.

"You don't want a check, do you?" he said at last.

"No--d-don't want a check."

"What in God's name do you want? I haven't got twenty thousand dollars
in curr