"No, you don't," he said, making a gesture as if tugging a pistol from his pocket. "I warn you both, I'm a desperate man. I've been skulking about for over a twelvemonth now, waiting for my chance, and it's come. I'll have that money before I go. Write out that cheque, and get it cashed. Send him, I say again, to get the money; and as for you," he snarled, as he turned his eyes on Brettison, "you play any games, you so much as look at a policeman while you are out, and I warn you he'll suffer for it before you can break in here with any of your cursed hounds." "It's of no use," said Brettison hoarsely. "Let him say how much he wants, and I'll write a cheque and get the money." "Hah! That's talking sense," said the man exultantly, but never for a moment relaxing his watchfulness--keeping his eyes upon Stratton, but noting as well Brettison's actions as he took out his pocketbook and drew a blank cheque from one of the folds. "How much must I draw this for, Mr Cousin?" he said hurriedly. "Cousin? Who's Mr Cousin? Draw it to James Barron, Esquire. No. What for? Draw it to yourself. Five hundred pounds, now." Brettison shrugged his shoulders, and moved toward the table. "Stop!" cried Stratton firmly. "What are you going to do?" "Give him the money," said Brettison. "You see; we must." "Fetch the police," repeated Stratton. "I cannot leave you and go myself." "But the man is armed," said Brettison. "My dear boy, he is desperate." "I tell you, I will protect you, man. Now, come on." He took a step forward, and the ex-convict gave a fierce tug to draw his weapon, but stopped, for Brettison seized his friend, and held him back. "The pistol! Mind!" he cried. "He has no pistol," roared Stratton, dragging himself free; and, seizing the man by the collar with both hands, he flung him aside. "Now, then, the police at once." Brettison rushed to the door; but stopped short to gaze in wonder at the group before him. For as if Stratton's touch had discharged all power from the man he had seized, the fierce look faded from his face, which grew heavy, vacuous, and dull; his legs trembled beneath him, and he lurched forward, and was only saved from falling by a rapid movement on Stratton's part as he swung him into an easy-chair, where his enemy sank back with his head lying over on one shoulder, and his leaden eyes staring heavily at the floor. The strength which had animated him with the flush of memory which had come back, had passed away, and he was once more the feeble imbecile, slowly raising his hand to his neck, where his fingers wandered about the scar of his wound; while at that moment there was faintly heard on the staircase the cheery humming-over of a scrap from an opera, followed by voices and steps on the stone landing, which halted at the door. Then came a long, rolling knock, followed by a merry laugh, and Stratton, with a quick movement, raised his hand and whispered: "Hush!" CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.