“Nor mine to give it,” he said. “I will call again; and in the meantime think of fifty. Good morning.” He was out and clattering down the stairs before the other could interpose. As he dropped, he heard the voice of the moneylender fading above him in plaintive remonstrance. His heart was stern with anger and resolve and a heat of triumph. It would be glorious to catch this scoundrel in his own springe. A few hours later saw him closeted at the Agency with Superintendent Ingram, and an extremely small man of a somewhat aggrieved and fretful cast. This latter sat upon the edge of his chair, his knees together, his hands fingering his cap on them, and his little legs tucked under. He was a mere shred of a creature, with a thin shaved face, a cross mouth and eyes, and a dyspeptic cough. He wore a suit of ginger-coloured dittos, and a scarf round his neck of a chess-board pattern. “Well, Trimmer?” said the Superintendent. The little man jumped. “There!” he said, “I wish you wouldn’t take me so sudden, Mr Ingram. I’m bilious, that’s what I am. These late hours play old Harry with a man of my constitution. You make me nervous.” “Well, I’m sorry,” said the Superintendent. “It was thoughtless of me. You were at a party last night, no doubt. You should take more care of yourself at your age, you know. One of these days you’ll be laid up for good and all, Trimmer.” A ghost of a smile twitched Mr Trimmer’s lips. “It’s a question with me between a sanatorium and a monastery, Mr Ingram,” he said; “but I must finish my little bit of a fling first.” “Well,” said the Superintendent; “this is without prejudice to your choice, you know. Do you think you can do it?” “_Think_ I can _do_ it!” The little man winked at Gilead. “Ask a card-sharper if he thinks he could play ‘Old maid’.” “You know what you’ve got to do, and leave no sign?” “You,” said Mr Trimmer, “play your part, and I’ll play mine. The gentleman, I understand, guarantees the blunt?” “Fifty for the attempt, and fifty more if you succeed,” said Gilead, smiling. He vastly preferred this sort of rascal to the Colfox. Mr Trimmer would condescend to no further discussion of his ways and means. “I was cracking nuts,” he said to the Superintendent, “before you’d got your milk teeth.”