Like a flash of lightning the truth burst upon him. Ezekiel Mowle, the tool whom he had held under his thumb--the worm upon whom he had trodden so often--had turned at last. Scrip, securities, mortgages had all gone. The South Indian Bank shares had not been sold. He remembered now the cashier’s manner when he presented the check, and he knew, as well as if Mowle had confessed, that he had embezzled every penny of the vast sum which Bartley Bradstone had, with contemptuous confidence, left at his disposal. Quite faint, sick, feeling more driven and helpless than he had ever felt before, he struggled to the table and drank a glass of water. What should he do? Throughout all the terrible time of peril he felt that at least he had one thing to help him--his immense wealth. Now that that had gone, what should he do? He leaned his head upon his hand, and forced himself to think. With the exception of the sum which he had obtained at the bank, he had no ready money whatever. Mr. Mowle could not make away with The Maples, and probably only that remained. That could not be realized without time. Then he remembered his jewelry. At all costs he must get that. It would sell for something--would bring enough, perhaps, to enable him to leave England. He must go back to Hawkwood. Pulling himself together, he went downstairs. On the way, the desire to punish the man who had betrayed him took full possession of him; but he knew that the longing for vengeance could not be satisfied. Any attempt to punish Mowle would reveal to the whole world the connection between them, and would brand him with infamy and disgrace. He got into the cab, and told the man to drive to Waterloo. Seth, in his cab, followed at a discreet distance. Luck favored Bartley Bradstone. The West of England train was leaving in a few minutes. Weary, tortured by anxiety, he threw himself into the corner of a carriage and closed his eyes. It was nearly midnight when the train reached Wainford station, and a true Devonshire drizzle had set in. With the exception of a solitary porter, there was no life about the station. Exhausted as he was, he must walk to The Maples. Perhaps it was as well; he could secure his jewels, and, by good luck, leave the house without being seen. Slowly he dragged himself along the muddy roads, reached the lodge, and had got his key in a side door which he sometimes used, when he heard a voice close behind him. With a hoarse cry he turned and staggered back. The night was dark, and he could distinguish nothing for a moment or two. Then he saw a man standing at the bottom of the steps, with his hands thrust in his pockets, and an expression of sullen impatience on his face. “Who are you, and what do you want?” demanded Bartley Bradstone. Seth came up the steps and looked at him.