In a fur coat which seemed to extinguish his thin form, Joe Pillin entered. It was snowing, and the cold had nipped and yellowed his meagre face between its slight grey whiskering. He said thinly:
“How are you, Sylvanus? Aren't you perished in this cold?”
“Warm as a toast. Sit down. Take off your coat.”
“Oh! I should be lost without it. You must have a fire inside you. So-so it's gone through?”
Old Heythorp nodded; and Joe Pillin, wandering like a spirit, scrutinised the shut door. He came back to the table, and said in a low voice:
“It's a great sacrifice.”
Old Heythorp smiled.
“Have you signed the deed poll?”
Producing a parchment from his pocket Joe Pillin unfolded it with caution to disclose his signature, and said:
“I don't like it—it's irrevocable.”