But M. de Kervoisin, with a shrug, indicated that this was no concern of his.
"M. de Kervoisin," Number Ten said, still smiling, "knows my methods. During the war I had other and more dangerous frontiers to cross than this one, my friend—and I never failed."
In Naniescu's puny mind, obviously a war was waging between greed and avarice. He was seeing his beautiful day-dream vanishing into the intangible ether—whence come all dreams—and he was not prepared to take any risks. Those articles which a reliable courier was even now taking to London with all speed were the most precious things he, Naniescu, had ever possessed. They meant honour, security, money—far more money than Number Ten was demanding with such outrageous impudence. And Naniescu was afraid of Number Ten, afraid of his daring, his courage, his unscrupulous determination to carry through what he had set out to do.
Ten thousand pounds! It was a great deal, but it would come out of secret service funds, not out of Naniescu's own pocket. There was only that slight tickling of one's amour propre to subdue. The desire to get the better of Number Ten, to win this battle of wits against so crafty an opponent. But what was amour propre when weighed in the balance with the realisation of Naniescu's wonderful day-dreams?
Nevertheless he made one more effort at a bargain.
"If I pay you that ten thousand," he said, with a savage oath, "what guarantee have I that the articles will be published?"
"None," was Number Ten's cool reply; "but if you don't pay me the ten thousand, I guarantee that they will not be published."
At which M. de Kervoisin put down his book and indulged in a good laugh.
"Take care, my friend," he said to Number Ten, "our friend here is beginning to lose his temper, and you may find yourself under lock and key before he has done with you."
"I wonder!" Number Ten retorted dryly. "It would mean raising hell in the English press, wouldn't it? if a British subject—what?"