Now I suppose I shall have to bully him, after all." He took his hand out of his breeches pocket; between two very dirty fingers he held a piece of gold.

The other hand he placed quite roughly on the lad's chest.
"Give me the letter," he said harshly, "or--" He pulled at the ragged blouse, and a scrap of soiled paper soon fell into his hand.

The lad began to cry.
"Here," said Blakeney, thrusting the piece of gold into the thin small palm, "take this home to your mother, and tell your lodger that a big, rough man took the letter away from you by force.

Now run, before I kick you out of the way." The lad, terrified out of his poor wits, did not wait for further commands; he took to his heels and ran, his small hand clutching the piece of gold.

Soon he had disappeared round the corner of the street.
Blakeney did not at once read the paper; he thrust it quickly into his breeches pocket and slouched away slowly down the street, and thence across the Place du Carrousel, in the direction of his new lodgings in the Rue de l'Arcade.
It was only when he found himself alone in the narrow, squalid room which he was occupying that he took the scrap of paper from his pocket and read it slowly through.