ike men of
the world. You put my back up when you begin talking all that nonsense
about the police. Be sensible, Mr Stratton. I've had one dose of over
yonder that was not pleasant. I don't want to get on trial for shooting
you--if caught."

He said the last words with a forced laugh, and took a step or two
forward in a jaunty fashion, in wonderful contrast with his manner an
hour or so before.

"Now, then, Mr Stratton, we'll forget all that, please. Sit down, as I
said before, and write that cheque."

Stratton stood motionless in the middle of the room, with his eyes fixed
upon his visitor; and his strength of mind and determination seemed to
grow rapidly. The old nervous horror was gone, and, quite equal to his
task, he never for a moment removed his eyes from his adversary.

"Come, we're wasting time, Mr Stratton. You're wanted yonder. No more
shilly-shallying, please; that cheque."

"Fetch the police, Brettison," said Stratton sternly; and, in obedience
to the order, Brettison took a step forward, while the savage aspect
came again into the ex-convict's countenance as he took a step back and
covered the door.

"No, you don't," he said, making a gesture as if tugging a pistol from
his pocket. "I warn you both, I'm a desperate man. I've been skulking
about for over a twelvemonth now, waiting for my chance, and it's come.
I'll have that money before I go. Write out that cheque, and get it
cashed. Send him, I say again, to get the money; and as for you," he
snarled, as he turned his eyes on Brettison, "you play any games, you so
much as look at a policeman while you are out, and I warn you he'll
suffer for it before you can break in here with any of your cursed
hounds."

"It's of no use," said Brettison hoarsely. "Let him say how much he
wants, and I'll write a cheque and get the money."

"Hah! That's talking sense," said the man exultantly, but never for a
moment relaxing his watchfulness--keeping his eyes upon Stratton, but
noting as well Brettison's actions as he took out his pocketbook and
drew a blank cheque from one of the folds.

"How much must I draw this for, Mr Cousin?" he said hurriedly.

"Cousin? Who's Mr Cousin? Draw it to James Barron, Esquire. No.
What for? Draw it to yourself. Five hundred pounds, now."

Brettison shrugged his shoulders, and moved toward the table.

"Stop!" cried Stratton firmly. "What are you going to do?"

"Give him the money," said Brettison. "You