“I am going to have your salary put back to the old figure, Norton. I'll have to get the directors' consent, but you can tell your wife when you go home that you have a raise to twenty-five hundred.” He turned expectantly toward his bookkeeper; he was counting on enthusiasm—gratitude, even, but he saw no trace of either on John's face. Their relations had undergone a great change. Haviland was no longer the despot John had known in the private office; he no longer inspired fear; he never could again. He was simply a redfaced vulgar man who was seeking to bribe an employee to betray his business associates. John had brooded over the possibilities of this interview; he had thought of the sarcasms he would hurl in his tyrant's face—but the tyrant was no longer a tyrant, he was only a guilty man, more or less pathetic to look upon, as guilty men are apt to be when retribution is in sight. To cover his losses, Haviland had taken almost half a million dollars from the company, consequently the necessity for a statement that would satisfy the directors and leave no room for inconvenient questioning was imperative. Provided it was forthcoming, it would give him a year in which to return all the securities he had hypothecated. Personally, he felt quite safe; he had gone deep enough into the funds of the company while he was about it to protect himself effectually,—at the worst he could always effect a compromise. He could turn over his property; carefully handled, it would easily reach half a million, and there was his stock in the concern besides. But he had no notion of compromising if he could help it, for what would he do without money, his credit and reputation gone! He grew sick. It all rested with the bookkeeper, who promised to be difficult to manipulate. He silently added five thousand dollars to the sum he was willing to offer as a last recourse. He cleared his throat. “Now about that report, Norton; I suppose you will want my help to-morrow.” John looked distressed. Haviland hitched his chair nearer and dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. “You know how busy I am,—you are ready to sign that statement—what's the use—” With a calmness he was conscious he did not feel, John took the cigar from between his teeth and said slowly: “I am not so sure about that.” Haviland looked at him blankly for a moment. He laughed shortly, and remarked: “I guess you are not such a fool, after all.” He drew his check book from his pocket, took a pen from the table, and dipping it in the ink, dated a check and signed it. “For what amount shall I make it, Norton?” The pen hovered above the blank space on the check. John shook his head. “No,” doggedly. “I can't do it,—I'm sorry for you, but I can't. What's the use?—it will be about as hard on me as on you,—I'll lose my place.” But Haviland was not heeding him. “If I make it ten thousand, will that satisfy you?”