The fat little merchant fiddled nervously with the writing materials in front of him, and his hesitation seemed to have a most irritating effect upon the goldsmith, who rose from his chair, took his watch from his pocket, and walked to and fro.
“It’s too much, too much,” petulantly reiterated Mr. Crookenden. “It’s not worth it, not the half of it.”
“That’s not my affair,” retorted Tresco. “The bargain was for £200. I want the balance due.”
“But how do I know you have the letters?” whined the merchant.
“Tut, tut! I’m surprised to hear such foolishness from an educated man. What you want will be forthcoming when you’ve drawn the cheque—take my word for that. But I’m tired of pottering round here.” The goldsmith glanced at his watch. “I give you two minutes in which to decide. If you can’t make up your mind, well, that’s your funeral. At the end of that time I double the price of the letters, and if you want them at the new figure then you can come and ask for them.”
He held his watch in his hand, and marked the fleeting moments.
The merchant sat, staring stonily at the table in front of him.
The brief moments soon passed; Tresco shut his watch with a click, and returned it to his pocket.
“Now,” he said, taking up his hat, “I’ll wish you good morning.”
He was half-way to the door, when Crookenden cried, “Stop!” and reached for a pen, which he dipped in the ink.