"Now tear out a cheque." "Tear out a cheque," cried the other. "What on earth are you getting at--one of my cheques--this is good." "Tear out a cheque," insisted the other, "it will only cost you a penny, and you will see my meaning in a moment." The animal, before the insistent direction of the other, hesitated, then with a laugh he tore out a cheque. "Now place it on the table." Voles placed it on the table. Jones going to the bureau fetched a pen and ink. He pushed a chair to the table, and made the other sit down. "Now," said Jones, "write me out a cheque for eight thousand pounds." Voles threw the pen down with a laugh--it was his last in that room. "You won't?" said Jones. "Oh, quit this fooling," replied the other. "I've no time for such stuff--what are you doing now?" "Ringing the bell," said Jones. Voles, just about to pick up the cheque, paused. He seemed to find himself at fault for a moment. The jungle beast, that hears the twig crack beneath the foot of the man with the express rifle, pauses like that over his bloody meal on the carcass of the decoy goat. The door opened and a servant appeared, it was the miracle with calves. "Send out at once, and bring in an officer--a policeman," said Jones. "Yes, my Lord." The door shut. Voles jumped up, and seized his hat. Jones walked to the door and locked it, placing the key in his pocket. "I've got you," said he, "and I'm going to squeeze you, and I'm going to make you squeal." "You're going to--you're going to--you're going to--" said Voles. He was the colour of old ivory. "I'm going to make you go through this--" "Here, d--n this nonsense--stop it--you fool, I'll smash you," said Voles. "Here, open that door and stop this business." "I told you I was going to make you squeal," said Jones, "but that's nothing to what's coming." Voles came to the table and put down his hat. Then, facing Jones, he rapped with the knuckles of his right hand on the table. "You've done it now," said he, "you've laid yourself open to a nice charge, false imprisonment, that's what you've done. A nice thing in the papers to-morrow morning, and intimidation on top of that. Over and above those there's the papers. _I'll_ have no mercy--those papers go to Lord Plinlimon to-morrow morning, you'll be in the divorce court this day month, and so will she. Reputation! she won't have a rag to cover herself with." "Oh, won't she?" said Jones. "This is most interesting." He felt a great uplift of the heart. So this blackmail business had to do with a woman. The idea that Rochester was some horrible form of criminal had weighed upon him. It had seemed to him that no man would pay such a huge sum as eight thousand pounds in the way of blackmail unless his crime were in proportion. Rochester had evidently paid it to shield not only his own name, but the name of a woman.