"I'll give no more. For why? Because in twenty days you will do my work for me; then it will cost me nothing, and it will cost you #89, that is all about it, Starkie."
Starkie lifted the note which James had flung carelessly down, and his skinny hands trembled as he fingered it. "This is David Cameron's note o' hand, and David Cameron is a gude name."
"Yes, very good. Only that is not David Cameron's writing, it is a—forgery. Light your pipe with it, Andrew Starkie."
"His nephew gave it himsel' to Aleck Laidlaw—"
"I know. And I hate his nephew. He has come between me and Christine Cameron. Do you see now?"
"Oh! oh! oh! I see, I see! Well, James, you can have it for #100—as a favor."
"I don't want it now. He could not have a harder man to deal with than you are. You suit me very well."
"James, such business wont suit me. I can't afford to be brought into notice. I would rather lose double the money than prosecute any gentleman in trouble."
The older man had reasoned right—James dared not risk the note out of sight, dared not trust to Starkie's prosecution. He longed to have the bit of paper in his own keeping, and after a wary battle of a full hour's length Andrew Starkie had his #89 back again, and James had the note in his pocket-book.
Through the fog, and through the wind, and through the rain he went, and he knew nothing, and he felt nothing but that little bit of paper against his breast. Oh, how greedily he remembered Donald's handsome looks and stately ways, and all the thousand little words and acts by which he imagined himself wronged and insulted. Now he had his enemy beneath his feet, and for several days this thought satisfied him, and he hid his secret morsel of vengeance and found it sweet—sharply, bitterly sweet—for even yet conscience pleaded hard with him.