Thus it was agreed. Mr. Daffy turned in the direction of his son's abode; the timber-merchant went northward, and presently reached Finsbury Park, where in a house of unpretentious but decent appearance, dwelt Mr. Bowles. The servant who answered the door wore a strange look, as if something had alarmed her; she professed not to know whether any one was at home, and, on going to inquire, shut the door on the visitor's face. A few minutes elapsed before Mr. Lott was admitted. The hall struck him as rather bare; and at the entrance of the drawing-room he stopped in astonishment, for, excepting the window-curtains and a few ornaments, the room was quite unfurnished. At the far end stood a young woman, her hands behind her, and her head bent--an attitude indicative of distress or shame. 'Are you moving, Jane?' inquired Mr. Lott, eyeing her curiously. His daughter looked at him. She had a comely face, with no little of the paternal character stamped upon it; her knitted brows and sullen eyes bespoke a perturbed humour, and her voice was only just audible. 'Yes, we are moving, father.' Mr. Lott's heavy footfall crossed the floor. He planted himself before her, his hands resting on his stick. 'What's the matter, Jane? Where's Bowles?' 'He left town yesterday. He'll be back to-morrow, I think.' 'You've had the brokers in the house--isn't that it, eh?' Mrs. Bowles made no answer, but her head sank again, and a trembling of her shoulders betrayed the emotion with which she strove. Knowing that Jane would tell of her misfortunes only when and how she chose, the father turned away and stood for a minute or two at the window; then he asked abruptly whether there was not such a thing as a chair in the house. Mrs. Bowles, who had been on the point of speaking, bade him come to another room. It was the dining-room, but all the appropriate furniture had vanished: a couple of bedroom chairs and a deal table served for present necessities. Here, when they had both sat down, Mrs. Bowles found courage to break the silence. 'Arthur doesn't know of it. He went away yesterday morning, and the men came in the afternoon. He had a promise--a distinct promise--that this shouldn't be done before the end of the month. By then he hoped to have money.' 'Who's the creditor?' inquired Mr. Lott, with a searching look at her face. Mrs. Bowles was mute, her eyes cast down. 'Is it Charles Daffy?' Still his daughter kept silence. 'I thought so,' said the timber-merchant, and clumped on the floor with his stick. 'You'd better tell me all about it, Jane. I know something already. Better let us talk it over, my girl, and see what can be done.'