"I want you—you," gasped the man. He was evidently much excited, and his breath came in hard, quick pants. "Have you forgotten your own brother?"
The two paused for an instant under a gas lamp. Oliver looked into Francis Trent's drawn, livid face—into the wild, bloodshot eyes, and for an instant recoiled. It struck him that the face was that of a madman. But it was, nevertheless, the face of his brother, and after that momentary pause he recovered himself and laughed slightly.
"Forgotten you? I'm not very likely to forget you, my boy. Well, what do you want?"
"I want that two thousand pounds."
His hand still clutched Oliver's arm, and the grasp was becoming unpleasant.
"Can you not take your hand off my arm?" said the younger man, coolly. "I'm not going to run away. Apropos, what have you been doing with yourself all these weeks! I thought you had given us the slip altogether."
"I want my money," said Francis, doggedly.
Oliver looked at him curiously. What did this persistence mean? What money was he thinking about?
"Your money?" he repeated.
"Yes, my money—the money you ought to have given me by this time—where is it?"