ousekeeper; who had her own rooms on the floor
above. It was no unusual thing for her to leave the rooms tenantless
late in the evening, and find them occupied when she rose in the
morning, Jasper having arrived during the dead of night, silently as was
his invariable custom.

The second morning after his sudden return to town, Mr. Vermont was in
his sitting-room, which was very plainly furnished indeed, partaking of
a breakfast so simple that his fashionable friends would scarcely have
believed the evidence of their own eyes. When he had finished, and the
table had been cleared, he went over to the roll-top desk which stood in
an angle by the window, and opened it, disclosing piles of letters,
sheets, of closely written foolscap and slips of memorandum forms. On
the corner of the desk stood a telephone, which communicated with
Harker's private room, downstairs in the offices; they were dignified by
the name of Harker's "Bank," and were, of course, those of the
moneylending business which was carried on by Vermont in that name.
Taking up the receiver now, he asked Harker to come up to him as soon as
possible.

Within the next few minutes, George Harker was standing before the
master he both hated and feared. He was very tall, with a thin, lined
face, from which all light and hope seemed to have fled. His whole being
appeared wrapped up in attendance on Jasper Vermont. He watched him
eagerly now, not speaking until he was spoken to, but simply waiting
patiently, doggedly, till his master was ready to attend to him.

Vermont drew the heap of various papers towards him--with keen eyes and
quick brain grasped the multitude of facts they set forth, checked the
long column of figures, struck the balances; and, with a nod of
satisfaction, looked up at the man before him.

"All right, Harker, as far as I can see--and, as you know, that's all
the way and a little beyond. But we must do better than that. Where's
the private account?"

"Here, sir," said Harker, in a dry, rasping voice, somewhat like the
creaking of an old, rusty-hinged door.

"Where?--oh, yes, I see. Oh, Paxhorn has come to us, has he? Writing
poetry is not a paying game, eh? Or is it the fine, grand company that
runs away with the golden counters? Well, all fish--or idiots--that come
to our net are welcomed, no matter what wind drives them. Thirty per
cent. from Paxhorn. No more?"

"I could not get any more, sir," said Harker earnestly; "I tried--tried
h