“What on earth could he want at that hour of night? McEvoy dressed hurriedly and rushed downstairs. His companion, with a set smile upon his lips, which was belied by the ghastly pallor of his face, was sitting in the dim light of a solitary candle, with a slip of paper in his hands.
“‘Sorry to knock you up, Willy,’ said he. ‘No eavesdroppers, I suppose?’
“McEvoy shook his head. He could not trust himself to speak.
“‘Well, then, our little game is played out. This note was waiting for me at home. It is from Moore, and says that he will be down on Monday morning for an examination of the books. It leaves us in a tight place.’
“‘Monday!’ gasped McEvoy; ‘to-day is Friday.’
“‘Saturday, my son, and 3 a.m. We have not much time to turn round in.’
“‘We are lost!’ screamed McEvoy.
“‘We soon will be, if you make such an infernal row,’ said Jelland harshly. ‘Now do what I tell you, Willy, and we’ll pull through yet.’
“‘I will do anything—anything.’
“‘That’s better. Where’s your whisky? It’s a beastly time of the day to have to get your back stiff, but there must be no softness with us, or we are gone. First of all, I think there is something due to our relations, don’t you?’