weeks. At
last he heard footsteps on the stairs. He endeavoured vainly to raise
himself, and, though he strove to cry out, his tongue refused to frame
the words. Lying there, living and yet lifeless, he saw the door open
and Amos enter. The old man hesitated a moment, for the room was dark,
while Gregorio, who had easily recognised his visitor, lay impotent on
the floor. Before Amos could become used to the darkness the door again
opened, and Madam Marx entered with a lamp in her hand. Amos turned
to see who had followed him, and, in turning, his foot struck against
Gregorio's body. Immediately, the woman crying softly, both visitors
knelt beside the sick man. A fierce look blazed in Gregorio's eyes, but
the strong words of abuse that hurried through his brain would not be
said.

"He is very ill," said Amos; "he has had a stroke of some sort."

"Help me to carry him to my house," sobbed the woman, and she kissed
the Greek's quivering lip and pallid brow. Then rising to her feet, she
turned savagely on the Jew.

"It is your fault. It is you who have killed him."

"Nay, madam; I had called here for my money, and I had a right to do so.
It has been owing for a long time."

"No; you have killed him."

"Indeed, I wished him well. I was willing to forgive the debt if he
would let me take the child."

A horrid look of agony passed over Gregorio's face, but he remained
silent and motionless. The watchers saw that he understood and that a
tempest of wrath and pain surged within the lifeless body. They
stooped down and carried him downstairs and across the road to the
Penny-farthing Shop. The Jew's touch burned Gregorio like hot embers,
but he could not shake himself free. When he was laid on a bed in a
room above the bar, through the floor of which rose discordant sounds of
revelry, Amos left them. Madam Marx flung herself on the bed beside him
and wept.

Two days later Gregorio sat, at sunset, by Madam Marx's side, on the
threshold of the cafe. He had recovered speech and use of limbs. With
wrathful eloquence he had told his companion the history of the terrible
night, and now sat weaving plots in his maddened brain.

Replying to his assertion that Amos was responsible, Madam Marx said:

"Don't be too impetuous, Gregorio. Search cunningly before you strike.
Maybe your wife knows something."

"My wife! Not she; she is with her Englishman. Amos has stolen the boy,
and you know it as well as I do. Didn't he tell you