For long he lay stretched out upon the floor in a state of half-consciousness. He could hear the mosquitos buzzing about his face, he could hear, too, the sounds of life rise up from the street below; but he was able to move neither arm nor leg, and his head seemed fastened to the floor by immovable leaden weights. That his son was lost was all he understood.  
How long he lay there he scarcely knew, but it seemed to him weeks. At last he heard footsteps on the stairs. He endeavoured vainly to raise himself, and, though he strove to cry out, his tongue refused to frame the words. Lying there, living and yet lifeless, he saw the door open and Amos enter. The old man hesitated a moment, for the room was dark, while Gregorio, who had easily recognised his visitor, lay impotent on the floor. Before Amos could become used to the darkness the door again opened, and Madam Marx entered with a lamp in her hand. Amos turned to see who had followed him, and, in turning, his foot struck against Gregorio’s body. Immediately, the woman crying softly, both visitors knelt beside the sick man. A fierce look blazed in Gregorio’s eyes, but the strong words of abuse that hurried through his brain would not be said.
 
“He is very ill,” said Amos; “he has had a stroke of some sort.”
 
“Help me to carry him to my house,” sobbed the woman, and she kissed the Greek’s quivering lip and pallid brow. Then rising to her feet, she turned savagely on the Jew.
 
“It is your fault. It is you who have killed him.”
 
“Nay, madam; I had called here for my money, and I had a right to do so. It has been owing for a long time.”
 
“No; you have killed him.”
 
“Indeed, I wished him well. I was willing to forgive the debt if he would let me take the child.”
 
A horrid look of agony passed over Gregorio’s face, but he remained silent and motionless. The watchers saw that he understood and that a tempest of wrath and pain surged within the lifeless body. They stooped down and carried him downstairs and across the road to the Penny-farthing Shop. The Jew’s touch burned Gregorio like hot embers, but he could not shake himself free. When he was laid on a bed in a room above the bar, through the floor of which rose discordant sounds of revelry, Amos left them. Madam Marx flung herself on the bed beside him and wept.
 
Two days later Gregorio sat, at sunset, by Madam Marx’s side, on the threshold of the cafe. He had recovered speech and use of limbs. With wrathful eloquence he had told his companion the history of the terrible night, and now sat weaving plots in his maddened brain.
 
Replying to his assertion that Amos was responsible, Madam Marx said:
 
“Don’t be too impetuous, Gregorio. Search cunningly before you strike. Maybe your wife knows something.”
 
“My wife! Not she; she is with her Englishman. Amos has stolen the boy, and you know it as well as I do. Didn’t he tell you he wanted the child? I met him that night, and he told me if I did not pay I had only myself to blame for the trouble that would fall on me.”
 
“Come, come, Gregorio, cheer up!” said the woman; for the Greek, with head resting on his hands, was sobbing violently.
 
“I tell you, all I cared for in life is taken from me. But I will have my revenge, that I tell you too.”
 
For a while they............