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The movement on the other side of the door ceased, and after a pause a voice asked who was there. Holcombe hesitated a second before answering, and then said, “It is a servant, sir, with a note for Mr. Allen.”

At the sound of some one moving toward the door from within, Holcombe threw his shoulder against the panel and pressed forward. There was the click of the key turning in the lock and of the withdrawal of a bolt, and the door was partly opened. Holcombe pushed it back with his shoulder, and, stepping quickly inside, closed it again behind him.

The man within, into whose presence he had forced himself, confronted him with a look of some alarm, which increased in surprise as he recognized his visitor. “Why, Holcombe!” he exclaimed. He looked past him as though expecting some one else to follow. “I thought it was a servant,” he said.

Holcombe made no answer, but surveyed the other closely, and with a smile of content. The man before him was of erect carriage, with white hair and whiskers, cut after an English fashion which left the mouth and chin clean shaven. He was of severe and dignified appearance, and though standing as he was in dishabille still gave in his bearing the look of an elderly gentleman who had lived a self-respecting, well-cared-for, and well-ordered life. The room about him was littered with the contents of opened trunks and uncorded boxes. He had been interrupted in the task of unpacking and arranging these possessions, but he stepped unresentfully toward the bed where his coat lay, and pulled it on, feeling at the open collar of his shirt, and giving a glance of apology toward the disorder of the apartment.

“The night was so warm,” he said, in explanation. “I have been trying to get things to rights. I–” He was speaking in some obvious embarrassment, and looked uncertainly toward the intruder for help. But Holcombe made no explanation, and gave him no greeting. “I heard in the hotel that you were here,” the other continued, still striving to cover up the difficulty of the situation, “and I am sorry to hear that you are going so soon.” He stopped, and as Holcombe still continued smiling, drew himself up stiffly. The look on his face hardened into one of offended dignity.

“Really, Mr. Holcombe,” he said, sharply, and with strong annoyance in his tone, “if you have forced yourself into this room for no other purpose than to stand there and laugh, I must ask you to leave it. You may not be conscious of it, but your manner is offensive.” He turned impatiently to the table, and began rearranging the papers upon it. Holcombe shifted the weight of his body as it rested against the door from one shoulder-blade to the other and closed his hands over the door-knob behind him.

“I had a letter to-night from home about you, Allen,” he began, comfortably. “The person who wrote it was anxious that I should return to New York, and set things working in the District Attorney’s office in order to bring you back. It isn’t you they want so much as–“

“How dare you?” cried the embezzler, sternly, in the voice with which one might interrupt another in words of shocking blasphemy.

“How dare I what?” asked Holcombe.

“How dare you refer to my misfortune? You of all others–” He stopped, and looked at his visitor with flashing eyes. “I thought you a gentleman,” he said, reproachfully; “I thought you a man of the world, a man who in spite of your office, official position, or, rather, on account of it, could feel and understand the–a–terrible position in which I am placed, and that you would show consideration. Instead of which,” he cried, his voice rising in indignation, “you have come apparently to mock at me. If the instinct of a gentleman does not teach you to be silent, I shall have to force you to respect my feelings. You can leave the room, sir. Now, at once.” He pointed with his arm at the door against which Holcombe was leaning, the fingers of his outstretched hand trembling visibly.