Philip Chater was in no mood for unprofitable conversation, especially with a man of this stamp, on that particular morning. His nerves had been tried, beyond the lot of common nerves, within the past four-and-twenty hours; he had had a wet and weary journey, and not too much sleep. Consequently, the smooth oily utterances of Mr. Isaacson drove him almost to frenzy. “Why the devil can’t you say what you’re driving at, and be done with it. You’ve brought me all this distance,” he cried, savagely—“and now you’re mouthing and carrying on in this fashion. What’s the matter with you? Out with it!” Mr. Isaacson’s face underwent a sudden change; certain veins in his temples swelled up ominously, and he came a little way round his desk; leaning over it, and putting his face near to that of his visitor, he said, truculently— “Oh—so you want me to out with it—do you? You’re not a bit ashamed of what you’ve done——” “Ashamed? What of?” cried Philip. “Forgery! Obtaining money by false pretences! Robbery! Holy Israel!—how much more do you want?” “Not much more—thank you,” replied Philip, staggered into calmness. “Perhaps you’ll have the goodness to explain.” “There isn’t much explanation needed,” snarled the other. “The last time you were in this office, you paid me a cheque for one thousand six hundred and twenty-six pounds, for accumulated interest, expenses, and other matters; because I had threatened that, unless I had that sum, by that date, I would come down on you, and sell you up. Now, you knew, Mr. Dandy Chater—and _I_ knew—that you hadn’t any such sum of your own; therefore you came to me, bringing a cheque for the amount, on the same bank as your own, at Chelmsford, from a Mr. Arthur Barnshaw—the brother, so you told me, of the young lady you expected to marry.” (“I’m glad I know who Arthur Barnshaw is,” thought Philip.) “You told me a pretty story, about his having lent you the money, out of affection for his dear sister, and to keep the knowledge of your affairs from her ears. Now, Mr. Dandy Chater”—the man brought his hand down upon the desk with a bang, and became rather more red than before in the face—“perhaps you’ll be surprised to learn that that cheque has been referred, on account of the signature, to Mr. Barnshaw himself; and that he unhesitatingly states that it is a forgery, and that he never drew any cheque, for any such amount.” Philip Chater, utterly at a loss what to say, sat staring at the man helplessly. The opening of the door behind him, and a change of expression to something milder on the part of Mr. Isaacson’s countenance, caused him to turn his head.