'What's the matter, Jane? Where's Bowles?'

'He left town yesterday. He'll be back to-morrow, I think.'

'You've had the brokers in the house--isn't that it, eh?'

Mrs. Bowles made no answer, but her head sank again, and a trembling of her
shoulders betrayed the emotion with which she strove. Knowing that Jane
would tell of her misfortunes only when and how she chose, the father
turned away and stood for a minute or two at the window; then he asked
abruptly whether there was not such a thing as a chair in the house. Mrs.
Bowles, who had been on the point of speaking, bade him come to another
room. It was the dining-room, but all the appropriate furniture had
vanished: a couple of bedroom chairs and a deal table served for present
necessities. Here, when they had both sat down, Mrs. Bowles found courage
to break the silence.

'Arthur doesn't know of it. He went away yesterday morning, and the men
came in the afternoon. He had a promise--a distinct promise--that this
shouldn't be done before the end of the month. By then he hoped to have
money.'

'Who's the creditor?' inquired Mr. Lott, with a searching look at her face.

Mrs. Bowles was mute, her eyes cast down.

'Is it Charles Daffy?'

Still his daughter kept silence.

'I thought so,' said the timber-merchant, and clumped on the floor with his
stick. 'You'd better tell me all about it, Jane. I know something already.
Better let us talk it over, my girl, and see what can be done.'

He waited a moment. Then his daughter tried to speak, with difficulty
overcame a sob, and at length began her story. She would not blame her
husband. He had been unlucky in speculations, and was driven to a
money-lender--his acquaintance, Charles Daffy. This man, a heartless
rascal, had multiplied charges and interest on a small sum originally
borrowed, until it became a crushing debt. He held a bill of sale on most
of their furniture, and yesterday, as if he knew of Bowles's absence, had
made the seizure; he was within his legal rights, but had led the debtor to
suppose that he would not exercise them. Thus far did Jane relate, in a
hard matter-of-fact voice, but with many nervous movements. Her father
listened in grim silence, and, when she ceased, appeared to reflect.

'That's _your_ story!' he said of a sudden. 'Now, what about the
horse-racing?'

'I know nothing of horse-racing,' was the cold reply.

'Bowles keeps all that to himself, does he? We'd better have our talk out