he
paused for breath.

Occupied with his own emotion, he had not observed the change in old
Heythorp's face. The imperial on that lower lip was bristling, the
crimson of those cheeks had spread to the roots of his white hair.
He grasped the arms of his chair, trying to rise; his swollen hands
trembled; a little saliva escaped one corner of his lips. And the words
came out as if shaken by his teeth:

"So-so-you-you bully me!"

Conscious that the interview had suddenly passed from the phase of
negotiation, Mr. Ventnor looked hard at his opponent. He saw nothing
but a decrepit, passionate, crimson-faced old man at bay, and all the
instincts of one with everything on his side boiled up in him. The
miserable old turkey-cock--the apoplectic image! And he said:

"And you'll do no good for yourself by getting into a passion. At your
age, and in your condition, I recommend a little prudence. Now just take
my terms quietly, or you know what'll happen. I'm not to be intimidated
by any of your airs." And seeing that the old man's rage was such that
he simply could not speak, he took the opportunity of going on: "I don't
care two straws which you do--I'm out to show you who's master. If you
think in your dotage you can domineer any longer--well, you'll find two
can play at that game. Come, now, which are you going to do?"

The old man had sunk back in his chair, and only his little deep-blue
eyes seemed living. Then he moved one hand, and Mr. Ventnor saw that
he was fumbling to reach the button of an electric bell at the end of a
cord. 'I'll show him,' he thought, and stepping forward, he put it out
of reach.

Thus frustrated, the old man remained-motionless, staring up. The word
"blackmail" resumed its buzzing in Mr. Ventnor's ears. The impudence
the consummate impudence of it from this fraudulent old ruffian with one
foot in bankruptcy and one foot in the grave, if not in the dock.

"Yes," he said, "it's never too late to learn; and for once you've come
up against someone a leetle bit too much for you. Haven't you now? You'd
better cry 'Peccavi.'"

Then, in the deathly silence of the room, the moral force of his
position, and the collapse as it seemed of his opponent, awakening a
faint compunction, he took a turn over the Turkey carpet to readjust his
mind.

"You're an old man, and I don't want to be too hard on you. I'm only
showing you that you can't play fast and loose as if you were God
Almighty any longer. You've