rom his pocket and opened the door.

"The constable is here, my Lord," said the servant.

"Tell him to come in," said Jones.

Voles had taken up his hat again, and he stood now by the table, hat in
hand, looking exactly what he was, a criminal on his defence.

The constable was a fresh-looking and upstanding young man; he had
removed his helmet and was carrying it by the chin strap. He had no
bludgeon, no revolver, yet he impressed Jones almost as much as he
impressed the other.

"Officer," said Jones. "I have called you in for the purpose of giving
this man in charge for attempting--"

"Stop," cried Voles.

Then something Oriental in his nature took charge of him. He rushed
forward with arms out, as though to embrace the policeman.

"It is all a mistake," cried he, "constable, one moment, go outside one
moment, leave me with his lordship. I will explain. There is nothing
wrong, it is all a big mistake."

The constable held him off, glancing for orders at Jones.

Jones felt no vindictiveness towards Voles now; disgust, such as he
might have felt towards a vulture or a cormorant, but no vindictiveness.

He wanted that eight thousand pounds.

He had determined to make good in his new position, to fight the world
that Rochester had failed to fight, and overcome the difficulties sure
to be ahead of him. Voles was the first great difficulty, and lo, it
seemed, that he was about not only to destroy it, but turn it to a
profit. He did not want the eight thousand for himself, he wanted it for
the game; and the fascination of that great game he was only just
beginning to understand.

"Go outside, officer," said he to the constable.

He shut the door. "Sit down and write," said he. Voles said not a word.

He went to the table, sat down and picked up the pen. The cheque was
still lying there. He drew it towards him. Then he flung the pen down.
Then he picked it up, but he did not write. He waved it between finger
and thumb, as though he were beating time to a miniature orchestra
staged on the table before him. Then he began to write.

He was making out a cheque to the Earl of Rochester for the sum of eight
thousand pounds, no shillings, no pence.

He signed it A. S. Voles.

He was about to cross it, but Jones stopped him. "Leave it open," said
he, "and now one thing more, I must have those papers to-morrow morning
without fail. And to make certain of them you must do this."

He went to the bureau and took a