sheet of note paper, which he laid
before the other.

"Write," said he. "I will dictate. Begin June 2nd."

Voles put the date.

"'My Lord,'" went on the dictator. "'This is to promise you that
to-morrow morning I will hand to the messenger you send to me
all the papers of yours in my possession. I confess to having
held those papers over you for the purpose of blackmail, and of
having obtained from you the sum of eight thousand pounds, and I
promise to amend my ways, and to endeavour to lead an honest life.

Signed. A. S. VOLES.'"
To The Earl of Rochester.

That was the letter.

Three times the rogue at the table refused to go on writing, and three
times his master went to the door, the rattle of the door handle always
inspiring the scribe to renewed energy.

When the thing was finished Jones read it over, blotted it, and put it
in his pocket with the cheque.

"Now you can go," said he. "I will send a man to-morrow morning at eight
o'clock to your home for the papers. I will not use this letter against
you, unless you give trouble--Well, what do you want?"

"Brandy," gasped Voles. "For God's sake some brandy."

CHAPTER IX

MORE INTRUDERS

The little glass that had held the _fin champagne_ stood on the table,
the door was shut, Voles was gone, and the incident was ended.

Jones, for the first time in his life, felt the faintness that comes
after supreme exertion. He could never have imagined that a thing like
that would have so upset him. He was unconscious during the whole of the
business that he was putting out more energy than ordinary, he knew it
now as he contemplated the magnitude of his victory, sitting exhausted
in the big saddle-bag chair on the left of the fire place and facing the
door.

He had crushed the greatest rogue in London, taken from him eight
thousand pounds of ill gotten money, and freed himself of an incubus
that would have made his position untenable.

Rochester could have done just the same, had he possessed daring, and
energy, and courage enough. He hadn't, and there was an end of it.

At this moment a knock came to the door, and a flunkey--a new
one--appeared.

"Dinner is served, my Lord."

Jones sat up in his chair.

"Dinner," said he. "I'm not ready for it yet. Fetch me a whisky and
soda--look here, tell Mr. Church I want to see him."

"Yes, my Lord."

Jones, as