Sufficiently he controlled his twitching fingers to write a note, as follows—(what awful irony!):
"To the Editor of the Gleaner,
"Sir,—I enclose a cheque for £100,000" (as he wrote these dreadful words, Rohscheimer almost contemplated rebellion; but the silence—the fearful silence—and the thought of the one who watched him proved too potent for his elusive courage. He wrote on). "I desire you to place it at the disposal of the Government for purposes of ariel" (Rohscheimer was no scholar) "defence. I hope others will follow suit." (He did. It was horrible to be immolated thus, a solitary but giant sacrifice, upon the altar of this priest of iconoclasm)—"I am, sir, yours, etc.
"Julius Rohscheimer."
Cheque and note he folded together, and stretching his hand behind him, threw them in the direction of the haunted wardrobe. His fear that, even now, he might be assassinated, grew to such dimensions that he came near to swooning. But upon no rearward glance did he venture.
Several heavy vehicles passed along the Lane. Rohscheimer listened intently, but gathered no sound from amid those others that gave clue to the enemy's movements.
Clutching at the table-edge he sat, and tasted of violent death, by anticipation.
The traffic sounds subsided again. A new stillness was born. Within the great house nothing moved. But still Julius Rohscheimer shook and quivered. Only his mind was clearing; and already he was at work upon a scheme to save his money.
One hundred thousand pounds. Heavens above! It was ruination!
A faint creak.