“A mistake, Sleeman. Didn’t intend to hurt you,” said Paul quietly. “I should have warned you I am a trick hand with the gun. I tell you now. Don’t try anything on me. There are five shots left in this gun. I can shoot five fingers off you before you could draw. I should love to do it. Do you know, Sleeman,” here Paul’s voice dropped a note, “I find it hard not to kill you. I stood by my father’s grave this morning. You killed him. Don’t speak, you dog! Only God Almighty is keeping me from killing you now. Listen carefully. Do what I ask you and for God’s sake if you want to live beyond this hour, do it quick!” Paralysed with fear, the wretched man sank into a chair and sat there, voiceless, staring at Paul, his breath choking him. “You need a drink,” said Paul after looking at him disgustedly for a few moments. “Get it, and quick.” Quickly, gladly, Sleeman went to a cupboard, poured himself a stiff glass of Scotch and drank it off. “Now, Sleeman, I want from you a statement of how my father stood with you in money matters.” An amazed relief expressed itself in Sleeman’s blotched countenance. “Yes, yes, certainly. Quite simple,” he said, striving to speak calmly. “Get your papers,” ordered Paul sharply. Sleeman went to a safe, brought out a tin box and selected some papers. “There’s the mortgage,” he said. “That’s about all.” Paul glanced at the document. He knew very little about such matters. “This is for fifteen thousand dollars. Did you pay him the full amount?” asked Paul, recalling an entry in his father’s red book. “Yes—ah—the full proceeds of the mortgage,” said Sleeman. “Sleeman, don’t try to deceive me. I know when a man is lying. Did you give my father fifteen thousand dollars in money?” Paul’s voice carried to Sleeman the fear of death. “Not exactly. That is—he owed me something—we had other deals, you understand.” “No, I understand nothing but that you are trying to deceive me.” His eyes, like points of steel, were boring into Sleeman’s. He leaned far over the table. “Sleeman,” he entreated, “don’t make me hurt you. I would love to, but unless it is necessary I must not. Listen! If it should become necessary I will, and gladly. I should like to hear you groan—as—as—oh, Sleeman!—as I heard my father groan the day you killed him.” “I didn’t kill——” Paul’s open hand flashed to Sleeman’s face. “Liar!” he snarled, half rising from his chair. “Stop! stop!” cried Sleeman, utterly cowed and unmanned. “I’ll tell you straight. I have the papers here. Don’t—do—anything!” “Oh, you poor cur!” cried Paul. “If you were only a man I should know what to do with you.” He was bitterly, horribly balked. He could not bring himself to punish this abject creature. The truth was Sleeman was by no means the man he was six years ago. He had been heavily dissipating, and his face showed his physical and moral degeneration. “Get through with this,” said Paul angrily. “Put your papers on the table.” Sleeman hastened to obey.