It might be summed up in the conviction that “the old man was not done with him yet”--and as Peter turned back from the window, almost relieved that he had, indeed, seen no creeping figure amongst the dark trees, he was aware that never since the days of his starvation in Bucket Lane, had he been so conscious of those threatening memories of Scaw House and its inhabitants. At that, almost as he reached his table, there was a knock on his door. “Come in,” he cried and, scorning himself for his fears, faced the maid with staring eyes. “Two gentlemen to see you, sir,” she said. “I have shown them into the study.” “Is Mrs. Westcott in?” “No, sir. She told me that she would not be back until six o'clock, sir.” “I will come down.” In the hall, hanging amongst the other things as a Pirate might hang beside a company of Evangelist ministers, was Stephen Brant's hat.... As Peter's hand turned on the handle of the study door he knew that his heart was beating with so furious a clamour that he could not hear the lock turn. III He entered the room and found Stephen Brant and Mr. Zanti facing him. The little window between the dim rows of books showed him the pale light that was soon to succeed the storm. The two men seemed to fill the little room; their bodies were shadowy and mysterious against the pale colour, and Peter had the impression that the things in the room--the chairs, the books, the table--huddled against the wall, so crowded did the place seem. For himself, at his first sight of them, he was compelled, instantly, to check a feeling of joy so overwhelming that he was himself astonished at the force of it. To them, as they stood there, smiling, feeling that same emotion to which he, also, was now succumbing! He checked himself. It was as though he were forced suddenly, by a supreme effort of will, to drive from the room a tumultuous crowd of pictures, enthusiasms and memories, that, for the sake of the present and of the future, must be forbidden to stay with him. It was absurd--he was a husband, a father, a responsible householder, almost a personage... and yet, as he looked at Stephen's eyes and Mr. Zanti's smile, he was the little boy back again in Tan's shop with the old suit of armour, the beads and silver and Eastern cloths, and out beyond the window, the sea was breaking upon the wooden jetty.... He put the picture away from him and rushed to greet the two of them. “Zanti!... Stephen!... Oh! how splendid! How perfectly, perfectly splendid!”