"The Herr Baron vill not blame me that I am anxious for my moneys," the Jew interrupted, speaking also in broken English and giving Wolff the benefit of a servile bow. "Dis genelman have borrowed much from me, and I am a poor man. I vould not have took the risk but dat he gave me your name as guarantee. He said dat you vere his broder-in-law and dat it vere all safe. Dat is von month ago, and since den I have heard no more of my genelman, but many English leave Berlin just now, and I come to see if vat he say be true." "It is perfectly true. Mr. Ingestre is my brother-in-law." "Den I am satisfied. De Herr Baron vill see to it as officer and genelman." He took a step towards the door, but Wolff stopped him with a curt gesture. Nor for a moment had he taken his eyes from Miles’s colourless and sickly countenance. "You say that Mr. Ingestre owes you money," he said. "Will you be so kind as to show me the bill?" The Jew immediately produced a slip of greasy paper and handed it to him. Wolff took it with the tip of his fingers, his eyes narrowing with an irrepressible disgust. There was a moment’s waiting silence. Miles’s eyes were riveted on the carpet, the Jew was taking an inventory of the furniture, and neither saw Wolff’s face. For that matter, save that the lips beneath the short fair moustache had stiffened, there was no noticeable change in his expression. "Twelve hundred marks!" he said at last, throwing the paper on his table. "Have you that sum by you, Miles? It would be better to pay this gentleman at once." Miles Ingestre started and glanced loweringly at his brother-in-law’s face. He suspected sarcasm, but Wolff’s pitiless steel-grey eyes warned him that the time for retort had not yet come. "Eh—no; I’m afraid I haven’t," he stammered. "I am expecting a cheque from home, and of course will pay up at once. To tell you the truth——" His thin, hesitating voice died away into silence. Perhaps he felt that Wolff had no desire to hear "the truth." He held his tongue, therefore, and let events drift as they might. Wolff had taken Frau von Arnim’s envelope from his pocket. He opened it and counted twelve notes for a hundred marks each on to the table. "Kindly give me your receipt," he said. The Jew obeyed willingly, scratching an untidy signature across the bottom of the piece of paper which Wolff pushed towards him. With greedy, careful fingers he counted the notes and stuffed them in his pocket. "It is a great pleasure to deal vid so great genelman," he said as he shuffled to the door. Wolff waited until he was gone, then he threw open the window as though the atmosphere sickened him. When he turned again his expression was still calm, only the narrowed eyes revealed something of what was passing through his mind. Miles did not look at him. He was playing with the paper-weight on the table, struggling to regain his dignity. It bit into his mean soul that he should be indebted to "this foreigner."