CHAPTER XXIV.
One winter evening some weeks after St.George's departure, Pawson sat before a smouldering fire in Temple's front room, reading by the light of a low lamp.

He had rearranged the furniture--what was left of it--both in this and the adjoining room, in the expectation that Fogbin (Gorsuch's attorney) would move in, but so far he had not appeared, nor had any word come from either Gorsuch or Colonel Rutter; nor had any one either written or called upon him in regard to the overdue payment; neither had any legal papers been served.
This prolonged and ominous silence disturbed him; so much so that he had made it a point to be as much in his office as possible should his enemy spring any unexpected trap.
It was, therefore, with some misgivings that he answered a quick, impatient rap on his front door at the unusual hour of ten o'clock.

If it were Fogbin he had everything ready for his comfort; if it were any one else he would meet him as best he could: no legal papers, at any rate, could be served at that hour.
He swung back the door and a full-bearded, tightly-knit, well-built man in rough clothes stepped in.

In the dim light of the overhead lamp he caught the flash of a pair of determined eyes set in a strong, forceful face.
"I want Mr.Temple," said the man, who had now removed his cap and stood looking about him, as if making an inventory of the scanty furniture.
"He is not here," replied Pawson, rummaging the intruder's face for some clew to his identity and purpose in calling at so late an hour.
"Are you sure ?" There was doubt as well as marked surprise in the man's tone.

He evidently did not believe a word of the statement.
"Very sure," rejoined the attorney in a more positive tone, his eyes still on the stranger.