“Ah! you have brought my papers?” said the merchant.
“I’ve brought my papers,” said the goldsmith, still smiling.
Crookenden chuckled. “Yes, yes,” he said, “quite right, quite right. They are yours till you are paid for them. Let me see: I gave you £50 in advance—there’s another £50 to follow, and then we are quits.”
“Another hundred-and-fifty,” said Tresco.
“Eh? What? How’s that? We said a hundred, all told.”
“Two hundred,” said Tresco.
“No, no, sir. I tell you it was a hundred.”
“All right,” said Tresco, “I shall retain possession of the letters, which I can post by the next mail or return to Mr. Varnhagen, just as I think fit.”
The merchant rose in his chair, and glared at the goldsmith.
“What!” cried Tresco. “You’ll turn dog? Complete your part of the bargain. Do you think I’ve put my head into a noose on your account for nothing? D’you think I went out last night because I loved you? No, sir, I want my money. I happen to need money. I’ve half a mind to make it two-hundred-and-fifty; and I would, if I hadn’t that honour which is said to exist among thieves. We’ll say one-hundred-and-fifty, and cry quits.”