ffair of Bommaney's, eh?'

This reception was nothing less than dreadful to the young criminal. He
had reckoned on having his way made easy for him. Steinberg had actually
offered to become his accomplice in crime, and had lured him to
disclosure. He could have wished that the floor would open and let
him through. He saw that he had already exposed his hand, and began to
imagine all manner of consequences resulting from the exposure. Not one
of the consequences he foresaw promised to be of a nature agreeable to
himself, and for the moment the hatred with which Steinberg inspired him
was of so mad a nature that there was nothing he would not have done to
him if he had had the courage and the power.

Steinberg wrote on, shaking his fist in what seemed to be an unusual
alert, and even threatening, manner. There was a great deal of
unnecessary motion in Steinberg's hand, and Barter, looking at its swift
and resolute movements, got a blind sort of impression of strength out
of it, and nullified the feeling with which it inspired him. The letter
written, enveloped, addressed, and stamped, Steinberg tossed it on one
side, and leaning back in his arm-chair, turned an uninterested look
once more upon his visitor.

'That affair of Bommaney's,' he said. 'What was that?'

Mr. Barter thought this inquiry altogether too barefaced, and responded,
with a hectic flush of courage,

'Come, Steinberg, don't play the fool with a fellow. You know jolly well
what it was last night.'

Mr. Steinberg's keen and impassive face underwent no change.

'What did I know last night?' he asked.

'You know,' Barter began angrily; and then the hectic flush of courage
died, and a dreadful chill of fear succeeded it. What had he known? He
had only guessed--till now. But now, young Mr. Barter felt, to employ
the expressive ideas of his set, that he had given himself away.
Steinberg capped the question in his mind. What did I know last night?

'You haven't come to waste your time or mine, I suppose? You've come to
say something. Why not say it?'

His guest, sitting in a terrible confusion, and feeling himself
altogether betrayed and lost, Steinberg marched to the door, and
addressing the boy in the outer room, bade him carry the letter to the
post and return no more that day. Then, having locked the outer door, he
returned and resumed his seat.

'Now, what is it?' he asked.

Barter, recognising the fact that his own purpose was already exposed,