As he spoke, he pulled a long, ugly, foolscap envelope out of his pocket, and taking a paper from it, opened it, and showed it to me. I saw something about Victoria, and by the grace of God, and some other words in large, staring print, and then my own name, and my mother's, and Jane Mullins'; and I thrust it back again. I could not understand it, and I did not care to read any further.
"I have heard of men like you," I said slowly; "but I have never seen one of them before."
The man was gazing at me with his queer, bloodshot eyes, full of the strangest pity.
"It must be a horrid profession for you," I said suddenly. I could not help myself; at that moment I seemed to forget my own trouble in sorrow for the man who had to do such dirty work. Was my brain going?
Scofield did not answer my last remark. He put it aside as too foolish to require a reply.
"A very pretty young lady," I heard him mutter, "and I'm that sorry for her." He looked me all over.
"Now, miss," he said, "there are two ways of taking a man of my sort."
I nodded my head.
"There's the way of succumbing like, and going into hysterics, and making no end of a scene, and the man stays on all the same, and the neighbours get wind of it, and the ruin's complete in no time, so to speak. 'Taint nothing much of a bill that's owed to Pattens, and even if half of it was to be paid, I have not the slightest doubt that Pattens would take me out and give you a bit more time; but there's no use in quarrelling with me, nor telling me to go, for go I won't, and can't. I had my orders, and I'm the man in possession. You have got to face that fact, miss."
"But you spoke of two ways," I said. "What is the way which is not—not quite so hopeless?"