Milbank Street house blazed into the early evening with a thousand lights. All day long wagons of roses and asters had stood before the doors, and aproned men had staggered into the hall with pots of flowers and stands of palms. Confectioners' wagons, loads of camp chairs, and now a large awning were the indubitable evidences of what was afoot. Night came on. The white cloth on the carpet across the sidewalk was trampled to a dirty gray. The orchestra began to arrive, and, shedding their coats in the servants' entrance, toiled up the back stairs and tentatively made their way through the flower-banked halls to the conservatory. Sir Richard sitting in his den and awaiting the arrival of his first guests could hear the musicians tuning their basses and testing the wood winds. But there was no music in Sir Richard's soul. All day long he had been haunted by the ghost of Flaggs scuttling behind him, and his hand had seemed swollen and discolored. Well, if he could but get through the night, could succeed in his suit with Lady Bella, he would go away and rest. Perhaps he would leave London forever—Lady Bella was very fond of Rome. The sounds of the instruments grew more confused and louder, the violins mingling with the others. Occasionally the trombones would boom out and the kettles rumble ominously. Outside splashes of rain began to fall against the windows, and the wind, catching in the hollow column of the awning, swept into the halls and through the open door into the den. Mortmain looked at his watch and found it was ten o'clock. People would be arriving soon. His hand twitched and he lighted a cigarette. There was a great deal of traffic in the front hall—too much. He closed the door and poured out a thimbleful of brandy. Well, a day or two and he would be rid of Flaggs forever! Then he heard a low knock. He tried to cheat himself into the belief that it was Joyce.
"Come in," he cried, but his voice was husky.
Flaggs stood before him.
"I have been expecting you," said Mortmain. It did not seem strange that he should make this declaration.
"Yes?" queried Flaggs.
"What do you want?" demanded the baronet.
"Ten thousand pounds," answered the clerk. "To-morrow."
Mortmain broke into a harsh laugh.
"Ha! my good fellow! What do you think I am—a Crœsus? Come, come, I'll give you fifty—and I get the notes, eh?"
"Ten thousand pounds," repeated Flaggs stubbornly, "by to-morrow noon, or I hand you over to the police."
The blood jumped into Sir Richard's face and his dexter hand throbbed and tingled.
"You miserable rascal!" he cried. "You wretched blackmailer! How dare you come into my house? Do you know that I could kill you? And no one would ever be the wiser! Take a few pounds and be off with you or I'll summon the police myself."
"Not so fast, not so fast, Sir Richard," muttered Flaggs. "I don't think you'll call the police."
The look on the white scowling face before him told Sir Richard that the fellow meant to do his business. A haunting fear seized hold upon him like that which he had experienced in the depot wagon—a feeling that behind this grotesque, dwarfed figure of a man lurked the hand of Fate.
"That's right. Be reasonable," said Flaggs soothingly. "Some folks would think ten thousand pounds was cheap to escape the gallows," he added in lower tones.
"Gallows!" cried Sir Richard, his anger rising. He knew the fellow's game now. He was being lied to. Flaggs was trying to frighten, to bully him. "The gallows, my friend, ceased to be the punishment for felony in 1826—even for blackmail!"
"But not for murder," retorted Flaggs with a ghastly smile. "Not for murder!"
"Enough of this!" exclaimed Sir Richard, but his knees were trembling. "Here are a hundred pounds. Go!" He put his hand to his breast pocket.
Flaggs laughed.
"Look!" he cried, pulling from the lining of his hat a printed slip which he unfolded and handed to the baronet.
Mortmain took it in dread and held it to the light.
"Murder in the first degree defined.
"The taking of the life of a human being by another with malice prepense or in the commission of a felony."
The last six words were underlined in red ink.
"Well?" he asked, but the word stuck in his throat.
"Well?" returned the other. "It's plain enough, isn't it? What more do you want?"
"It is not plain, you blackguard."
"Maiming is a felony. You know that. Amputation is maiming. Flynt told you so. The fellow that sold you that hand of yours died of it, didn't he?"
Mortmain uttered an exclamation of horror. He looked down at the fearful thing and it seemed to him to be the color of death. "They can never prove it!" he cried faintly. "They can't prove it! They cannot!"
"Yes, they can! I saw it done," remarked Flaggs. "I saw him buried in the garden. He is there yet—minus his hand."
"You villain!" gasped Mortmain. The room reeled, and Flaggs danced before him, gibbering with glee. The light darkened and brightened again and seemed to swing in circles.
"Pull yourself together, Sir Richard!" remarked Flaggs mockingly. "Pull yourself together! Isn't it worth ten thousand pounds or one hundred thousand pounds? But I'm reasonable. Only ten thousand pounds! Come, come! Let me have it!"
"No!" shouted Mortmain. "Not if I die for it."
"Then you will die for it," said Flaggs.
The sound of the fiddles came through the closed door of the study. The cries of the lackeys and the roll of carriages arriving and departing could be heard in the front.
"You will die for it, as there is a God in heaven, if I choose!"
Mortmain stood silent. He had a presentiment of what Flaggs was going to say.
"A word from me," continued the clerk, "and you hang for the murder of Lord Russell. Everyone knows you hated him. Flynt, Joyce, and I heard you say you would kill him. You owed him seventy-five thousand pounds and it was two days overdue. He would have ruined you next day. The officer saw you outside his window within five minutes of the murder, and so did I. There was nothing taken but the notes—nothing. They were found in your possession the next morning. How did they get there? The case is complete. The notes convict you. I've got them. They are yours for ten thousand pounds—only ten thousand pounds."
"You villain," shouted Mortmain, springing toward him.
The door from the hall opened and Joyce entered letting in the warm breath of roses and the loud strains of a waltz.
"Lady Bella has arrived, Sir Richard," he announced.
"Tell her I am coming," said Mortmain, starting for the door.
"Wait!" shrieked Flaggs, his face horribly distorted. "Wait!" Joyce had retired.
Mortmain paused with clinched fists.
"Isn't it worth ten thousand pounds to save a guilty man—a
