“He will have to, or face the consequences!” And Clement looked as if he meant it: a hard Clement this, with a new note in his voice. “From the India House to Bow Street is not very far, and he will certainly go to Bow Street—or the Mansion House—if he does not see reason. But he will.” “He may, if you are with him before he parts with the securities. But from this to noon to-morrow you will not do it in that time, my lad, at night? Winter time, too? You’ll never do it!” But Clement averred that he would—in fourteen hours, with good luck. It was for that reason that he had gone straight to the Lion and ordered a chaise for eight o’clock and sent on word by the seven o’clock coach for a relay to be ready at the Heygate Inn. He had also asked the Lion to pass on word by any chaise starting in front of him. “So I hope for two or three stages I shall find the horses ready. Betty, pack up some food for me, that’s a good girl. I’ve only twenty minutes.” “And your travelling cloak?” she cried. “I’ll air it.” “You must eat something before you start,” said his father. “Yes, I will. And, Rodd, do you get me the bank pistols—and see that they are loaded!” The banker nodded. “Yea, you’d better take them,” he said. “It’s an immense sum—if you bring it back. It would be a terrible business if you were robbed.” “Ay, for then we should share the blame,” Clement answered drily. “That wouldn’t do, would it? But let me get the money, and I’ll not be robbed, sir.” They parted, hurrying to and fro on their several errands, the banker fetching money for the journey, Rodd loading the pistols, Betty setting food before the traveller and cutting sandwiches for the journey, Clement himself making some change in his dress. For ten minutes a cheerful stir reigned in the house. But Ovington, though he yielded to this and watched his son at his meal and filled his glass, and played his part, did but feign. He knew that within a few minutes the door would close on Clement, the house would relapse into silence, the lights would go out, and he would be left to face the failure of all the hopes, the plans and expectations which he had entertained through the day. The odds against him, which had not seemed overwhelming twenty-four hours before, now appeared invincible and not to be resisted. He felt that the fates were opposed to him. He had had his chance, and it had been withdrawn. As he climbed the stairs to bed, climbed them slowly and with heavy feet, he read ruin in the flame of his candle. As he undressed he heard the voices of revellers passing the house at midnight, on their way from the Raven or the Talbot, and he suspected derision in their tones. He fancied that they were talking of him, jeering at him, rejoicing in his fall. In bed he lay long awake, calculating, and trying to make of four, five. Could he hold out till Wednesday? Till Thursday? Or would panic running through the town on the morrow, like fire amid tinder, kindle the crowd and hurl it,