"And now," said Barnabas, turning to the crouching woman, "I don't think Mr. Quigly will interrupt us again, you may freely tell your trouble—if you will."
"Oh, sir,—it's my husband! He's been in prison a whole year, and now—now he's dying—they've killed him. It was fifty pounds a year ago. I saved, and scraped, and worked day and night, and a month ago—I brought the fifty pounds. But then—Oh, my God!—then they told me I must find twenty more—interest, they called it. Twenty pounds! why, it would take me months and months to earn so much, —and my husband was dying!—dying! But, sir, I went away despairing. Then I grew wild,—desperate—yes, desperate—oh, believe it, sir, and I,—I—Ah, sir—what won't a desperate woman do for one she loves? And so I—trod shameful ways! To-day I brought the twenty pounds, and now—dear God! now they say it must be twenty-three. Three pounds more, and I have no more—and I can't—Oh, I—can't go back to it again—the shame and horror—I—can't, sir!" So she covered her face again, and shook with the bitter passion of her woe.
And, after a while, Barnabas found voice, though his voice was very hoarse and uneven.
"I think," said he slowly, "yes, I think my cane could not have a worthier end than splintering on your villain's back, Mr. Quigly."
But, even as Barnabas advanced with very evident purpose, a tall figure stood framed in the open doorway.
"Ah, Quigly,—pray what is all this?" a chill, incisive voice demanded. Barnabas turned, and lowering the cane, stood looking curiously at the speaker. A tall, slender man he was, with a face that might have been any age,—a mask-like face, smooth and long, and devoid of hair as it was of wrinkles; an arresting face, with its curving nostrils, thin-lipped, close-shut mouth, high, prominent brow, and small, piercingly-bright eyes; quick eyes, that glinted between their red-rimmed, hairless lids, old in their experience of men and the ways of men. For the rest, he was clad in a rich yet sober habit, unrelieved by any color save for the gleaming seals at his fob, and the snowy lace at throat and wrist; his hair—evidently a wig—curled low on either cheek, and his hands were well cared for, with long, prehensile fingers.
"You are Jasper Gaunt, I think?" said Barnabas at last.
"At your service, sir, and you, I know, are Mr. Barnabas Beverley."
So they stood, fronting each other, the Youth, unconquered as yet, and therefore indomitable, and the Man, with glittering eyes old in their experience of men and the ways of men.
"You wished to see me on a matter of business, Mr. Beverley?"