“What is that you say, sir?” cried Ascott, in sudden alarm. But the magistrate merely bowed to the Englishman without another word and made his exit. For a moment the young man was left alone in the room, but presently, plucking up his spirits, he sprang hurriedly to the door of the ante-room: “Moche, Monsieur Moche!” he called the old man back in a voice choked with agitation. Moche was already half-way down the stairs, but he turned back and re-entered the room: “What do you want with me, sir?” he asked, eyeing the Englishman haughtily up and down. “Moche, come here,” said the latter, and hurriedly catching the other by the sleeve of his coat, he led him into an adjoining room, his library and study. In feverish haste he pulled open a drawer and took out a cheque-book. Dipping a pen in the ink, he paused before writing to ask: “Monsieur Moche, how much?” “Beg pardon!” said the old brigand. Ascott, mastering his nerves, repeated once more: “I ask you, how much do you want? this is a cheque I have here, which I am ready to sign in your favour; fix the amount yourself, and let us have done with this nonsense.” A gleam of cupidity flashed in the usurer’s eyes, but that astute personage did not yield to the temptation. It was not in that fashion he hoped to bleed the Englishman; his project was more pretentious, his plan more complicated than that. The old man feigned the greatest indignation: “It is shameful, sir; you insult me! After your villainous treatment of my niece, you offer me money. Sir, you mistake my character altogether! No, sir, I do not take that bait, the affair must follow its course!” Ascott turned livid. “Moche,” he supplicated, “we are friends ...” “We _were_ friends, sir.” “Moche!... Monsieur Moche! I cannot have a scandal!” “Nini Guinon, my niece, sir, is dishonoured.” “But, Moche, how can this be arranged?” “There is but one way, sir, to right the wrong done, religion and society offer you the means.” Ascott hesitated a moment, then he replied with a shudder. “Marriage, you mean?” he cried; “you would have me marry Nini Guinon ... you forget that I am a great nobleman!” Moche corrected: “Lord Ascott, yes; but that’s not you, that is your father.” “I am his son ...” “His younger son, sir, which is by no means the same thing. There is nothing should hinder your marrying an honest girl whom you have led astray from the paths of duty.” Ascott was obviously wavering. “Moche, my good friend, Moche!” he besought the old scamp, “there must be other ways of settling the question; I am rich, I care nothing for the money ...”