Swiftly Monjoy’s eyes sought Ellah. He lay, a motionless heap, in one corner. He was dressed in his shirt only, and he was blackened from head to foot. Monjoy strode past the loom-seat and turned Ellah’s face up; it was of the colour of a bruised and rotten plum, and Monjoy drew in a long sibilant breath between his teeth. “Whose work’s this?” he roared. Murgatroyd had given a quick glance about him; a nod or two backed him up, and he stood before Monjoy. “Keep ye to your business, Arthur,” he said, truculently. “All were sattled. Ye needn’t look at th’ knife--nobody’s been cutten yet; ’tis us tak’s ho’d now. We foun’ him all black like that; we’ve naughbut gotten out o’ him how mich he got for th’ job, and it were a hunderd pound. Now _we_’ve a bit o’ business.... Where were we, lads?” “Me an’ Leventoes, an’ Dick o’ Dean, five; that’s fifteen,” a voice said. “Fifty-five, then, and Pim ’ll mak’ it sixty.” On one of the uprights of the loom Mish was cutting a tally of notches; he cut another notch. “Charley an’ Belch, how mich?” he demanded; and the low hum continued. Monjoy had turned to Ellah again. A man standing by him remarked over his shoulder, “He’d been trying to climb up th’ chimley when we come; he’s all for smout-holes now,” and turned again to the business in hand. “Take him on the other side, James,” Monjoy muttered; “he’s horrible to see this way.” They began with their handkerchiefs to wipe the soot from Ellah’s face. However he had come by it, there was little doubt of Ellah’s madness now. He shuddered convulsively under their hands, and fell back in fear into his corner. The corner was foul where he had lain for days. Cope had known better than to put this figure into the box; and Monjoy groaned. “I didn’t think to bring him to this when I cast him down,” he said with a shudder. The ominous low conference continued. They pressed about the loom, and by and by Murgatroyd said briefly, “Seventy-three. How much you, Hell Harry?” “A month’s weyvin’; I ha’ nowt else.” Mish made a scratch by the side of his tally, and all at once Monjoy stepped towards him. “What is this?” he demanded. “D’ye hear? What _is_ it?” “A hunderd pounds,” said a sullen voice from the other side of the loom. “He’s paid it, he’s ha’ it back”; and “Ay, ay,” came the consenting murmur. “Who shall?... Damnation, Murgatroyd, but you shall not play with me!” Mish’s brow was drawn into a “V” between his calf-licks; he turned a menacing face over his shoulder. “Will ye stick to your own business?” he said savagely--“wi’out ye want to come in wi’ us----?” “How do you know he had a hundred pounds? The man’s mad!” “He come down th’ chimley jabbering it right eniff. Look here; if ye want to know, we fotched him down th’ same as they fotch th’ sweeper-lads down. If ye don’t know how that is, ye can look at th’ grate.” Monjoy glanced at the grate; it was a litter of white straw-ashes.