"Why not?" he flared in reply to my relative's mockery. "If we take it, why not take all?"
"Because," retorted Murray with a burst of terrible energy, "I have passed my word as to the terms upon which the treasure is to be taken."
"What's your word?" rapped Flint.
For a moment I thought my great-uncle would strike him. He made to draw back his arm, and perspiration stood out in white beads upon his forehead. Flint feared it, too, but did not raise a hand to protect himself, charmed to immobility by the virulence of the basilisk's stare which Murray directed at him.
"It is my word," said Murray finally in a very soft voice. "No more, Flint. A poor thing, as the poet hath said, yet my own! Also—that I may chime in harmony with your mental processes—it happens that my personal interests are bound up with the observance of these terms."
"I thought so," sneered Flint.
"Ah! Did you?"
My great-uncle's tones continued dulcet.
"It is a matter we will not discuss further, since it is beyond the range of your comprehension. I shall merely say that the terms are fixed, and that you will either accept or reject them."
"What are they?"