“Let me advise you not to move,” Jetsam warned him, raising the revolver an inch or so. “It mightn’t be very good for your constitution. You must grasp, the fact that you are being held up. A worn-out operation, you will say--a trick lacking in novelty! Yes; but one, nevertheless, based on the fundamental human instincts, and therefore pretty certain to succeed. Indeed, I am surprised how simple it is. You might fancy from my easy bearing that I had devoted a lifetime to holding people up. Not in the least. I have never held anyone up before. And yet, how well I am succeeding! The thing works like a charm; merely because you can see in my eye that I mean to be obeyed.” “I suppose you want money?” said Ilam savagely. “I don’t want impudence!” retorted Jetsam. “Apologize, if you please, my friend!” “What have I said?” “It isn’t what you said--it’s your manner of saying it that was unworthy of you. You mean to apologize for wounding my feelings, don’t you?” Jetsam smiled. “No, don’t move; merely express your regret!” “I’m sorry,” muttered Ilam. “There--you see!” cried Jetsam to the men in the corner. “Let that be a lesson to you. And remember, that only great men like Mr. Ilam have sufficient moral force, when they are in the wrong, to admit the fact. Well, Jos, I accept your apology in the cheerful and generous spirit in which you offer it; and I shall not deny that I do want money. That is part of what I came for.” “How much do you want?” asked Ilam. “Well,” said Jetsam. “How much have you got handy?” Mr. Ilam intimated that there was a small sum in gold. “A thousand in gold?” queried Jetsam. Ilam nodded. “Probably more,” Jetsam commented. “But a thousand will suffice me. If I need a fresh supply I can always come again, can’t I? And besides, all that is yours is mine, eh?” Ilam maintained silence. “Eh?” repeated Jetsam persuasively. “Yes,” growled Ilam, and his eye caught the eye of the young bank-clerk by pure accident. At that moment the young bank-clerk, fired by martial valour, a thirst for glory, and the thought of what a splendid thrilling tale he would have to tell to the charming young thing at Weybridge, sprang furiously forward in the direction of Jetsam. “Stop!” said Jetsam, slipping off the table and facing the youth, revolver ready. The youth hesitated for the fifth of a second. “No,” said the youth, and came on. Jetsam fired almost point-blank at the hero’s face, and the hero started back and sank to the ground. And there was a great hush in the room and a smell of powder and a little smoke. The youth lay still. “Get up!” said Jetsam fiercely. “Get up, or I’ll kick you up!” And, strange to relate, the youth discovered the whereabouts of his limbs and got up, and returned to the corner.