"The 22nd September," said I, "the 22nd September. It was the day of his trial."
At the words his face cleared wonderfully. He rose with an indescribable air of relief, flung the box carelessly on the table, and said with a contemptuous smile:
"Ah, Mr. Buckler! Mr. Buckler! You would have saved much time had you mentioned the date earlier. How much?" and he shook some imaginary coins in the cup of his hand.
"Count Lukstein!" I exclaimed.
I had not the faintest notion of what he was driving at, and the surprise which his change of manner occasioned me obscured the insult.
"Tut, tut, man!" he resumed, with a wave of the hand. "How much? Surely the farce drags."
"The farce," I replied hotly, "is one of those which are best played seriously. Remember that, Count Lukstein!"
"Well, well," he said indulgently, "have your own way. But, believe me, you are making a mistake. I have no wish to cheapen your wares. That you have picked up some fragments of the truth I am ready to agree; and I am equally ready to buy your silence. You have but to name your price."
"I have named it," I muttered, locking my teeth, for I was fast losing my temper, and feared lest I might raise my voice sufficiently to be heard beyond the room.
"Let me prove to you that you are wasting time," said he with insolent patience. "You have been ill-primed for your work. You say that you visited Sir Julian on the night of the 22nd. You say that you were Sir Julian's friend. I would not hurt your feelings, Mr. Buckler, but both those statements are, to put it coarsely, lies. You were never Sir Julian's friend, or you would have known better than to have fixed that date. But two people visited him on the 22nd, a priest and a woman, the most edifying company possible for a dying man." He ended with a smooth scorn. I looked up at him and laughed.