Thus he baited Mr. Seth feature by feature, pointing out the disorder of liver, kidney-puffs, the general encroachments of death, in fact. Then he pictured the death itself--all of a low literary strength as was Mr. Prentidd’s cold habit. The answer of Mr. Seth was an incoherent helplessness, his lips moving but with nothing rational under the sun, as if he had been called by some inexorable but superior being to an altitude where he was too evil to breathe, and begged piteously to be allowed to sink back and die. It was Mr. Eben who stopped it, coming forward quietly, his steps rounded, his shoulders bent, his face seeming brittle as chalk in its fixity. The thing that he said was quite absurd: “You really mustn’t, Mr. Prentidd. It is too much.” The inventor turned to him. His look was that of a man who turns a large morsel in his mouth. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said with a slow laugh. “There is this delicacy to old liars. Come give me my check--and I will go.” “Your check----” Mr. Eben repeated. “Yes, now--the check for the difference which your father’s lie cost me three years ago. I have seen the English books----” Now young Mr. Jabez Lot came forward: “Of course, if there has been error or any breach of contract--of course, you see a check off hand such as you ask is out of the question----” The elder Mr. Wetherbee sank back to his desk; and now the dreamer, Mr. Nathan Lot, appeared with a frightened word of amelioration. Mr. Eben stood by the caller to the last moment. The latter was not at his best in this period--his threats and anger amounted to the usual result. Lot & Company refused to deal further, referring him to its attorney. The strangest part of it all was the gathering of three around Mr. Seth Wetherbee’s desk--Mr. Jabez and his father with Mr. Eben. Yet the concern of the Lots, father and son, had nothing to do with dangerous exhaustion of the vice-president. “We have beaten him,” the dreamer said softly. “Yes, Mr. Jackson will do the rest,” said Mr. Jabez. Mr. Jackson was the attorney. Bellair, even with his training, had to take it slowly. “Beaten him”--that meant that the money had not passed to Mr. Prentidd. It was now with the law and the years--millions against a mere inventor. The psychic slaughtering of the old vice-president did not count--nothing of words counted. The firm had won, because the firm had not been knocked down and its pockets rifled--that would have meant loss. Not having been forced to pay, they had won.... Even as Bellair thought this out in full, the system of salving had begun from all the firm-heads for the benefit of those who heard. It was simply arranged and stated.... Their worst fears were realised: Mr. Prentidd was insane.... Mr. Seth went home early. Bellair knew that Mr. Eben had not been able to turn all responsibility to Mr. Jackson.... That afternoon Bellair reached his decision--in fact, he found it finished within him after the scene.