"Aye, because I've taught you to know it!" said Jeckie. "I've bested you!" Grice looked at her, furtively. He had some knowledge of human nature, and he suddenly realised the woman's hard, determined spirit. "If I'd ha' known," he burst out suddenly, "what make of woman you are, I'd ha' taken good care that things turned out different! If you'd married our Albert--aye, things would indeed ha' been different! But I went on t'wrong side o' t'road--and he married that niece o' mine, 'at's now made him turn agen' his own father, and I'm left there--alone!" "Your own fault!" said Jeckie. "Who made your bed but yourself?" "That makes it no better," replied Grice. "Nay, it makes it worse! I've borne more nor I ever expected to bear. This--(he waved his hand around as if to include his rival's establishment and trade)--this is t'least of it. You fought me fair and square, no doubt; and I'm beaten. But there's a thing I can suggest, even at this stage." "What?" demanded Jeckie, who was watching him keenly. "What?" Grice put both hands on his knees and bent forward to her. "I'm still a well-to-do man," he said, in a low, terse voice. "Accordin' to some standards, I'm a rich man. I had a reckonin' up t'other night o' what I were worth. If I'd to die now I should cut up well. You'd be surprised. And I shan't leave a penny to my son! My son, Albert Grice--not a penny!" Jeckie continued to stare at him; herself silent, her face fixed. She saw that her beaten rival had still a lot more to say, and that left to himself he would say it. "Not one penny to him!" continued Grice with emphasis. "For why? I'll not say 'at if he were a single man or a widow man I shouldn't. But he's wed and to my niece, and after what I've experienced at her hands I'll take care 'at she handles no more money o' mine. It were her 'at forced Albert to dissolve partnership wi' me. I had to pay him out wi' a lot o' money. But they'll never see another penny of what I've got! An' as I said just now, I'm worth, first and last, a good deal." Jeckie suddenly opened her tightly-shut lips. "How much?" she asked quietly. Grice gave her a quick look; from her face his eyes wandered to the door of the parlour, which Jeckie had left open. He suddenly rose from his chair, tiptoed across the floor, and looked out into the lobby. "There isn't a soul in the house but Farnish, and he's fast asleep, t'other side of the shop," said Jeckie, laconically. "But you can shut the door if you like." Grice shut the door, slid back to his chair, and once more looked at her. "Five and twenty thousand pound, at least," he said in a whisper. "One thing and another, five-and-twenty thousand pound!" Jeckie watched him steadily through another period of silence. "What did you come here for?" she suddenly demanded. "It wasn't for naught, I'll be bound! You'd an idea in your head!" Grice leaned an elbow on the table, and began to tap the smart cloth with his thick fingers.