When he could gather strength to do it, he began knocking at the door—knocking till he woke the deserted house with echoes that simulated the sound of hurrying feet—knocking till the neighbours opened their doors, and put their heads out of the windows to ascertain what was the matter.
"There is no one in that house, sir," shouted an irascible gentleman from the next balcony.
"There is no use in your trying to knock the door down. The house is empty, sir. The family left a week ago, and the last of the furniture was removed on Saturday."
"Where have they gone?" asked Mr. Forde in a weak husky voice, which sounded to his own ears like that of some different person.
"To South America. Mr. Kleinwort has got an appointment there under his own government."
That was enough. The manager knew for certain Kleinwort had thrown him over, that he had eight days' start of any one who might try to follow.
How it had been managed; how the Hastings juggle was performed; who had helped him to hoodwink those who might be interested concerning his whereabouts, he felt too sick and dizzy even to imagine.
There was only a single fact he was able to realise; namely, that between him and ruin there stood now but one man, and that man Henry Werner.