The owner of the nasal tones thereupon shrugged his shoulders, and looked up at the ceiling, as if he expected it to give him some sign as to what his next course of action should be. He murmured once more, “And fifty,” but mechanically and without conviction. And when Volenski said “Six hundred” the nasal tones were heard no more.
“Now then, gentlemen,” said the auctioneer, “this pair of unique candlesticks going for the sum of six hundred pounds—six hundred pounds, gentlemen—going——”
“Seven hundred,” came from a musical voice—a lady’s.
All heads were turned in the direction whence the voice had come, and curious eyes were scanning the new bidder. Volenski did not turn round; he knew well enough whose voice it was—the soft voice with a soupçon of Russian intonation in the pronunciation of the consonants. He had turned deathly pale; his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth; his knees began to tremble under him; but in a second all this cowardice was over. Lashing himself into sudden energy he drew himself bolt upright, and in almost defiant tone shouted to the auctioneer, “One thousand pounds.”
“And five hundred,” came in equally defiant tones from his fair antagonist in the rear.
“Two thousand,” said Volenski.
“And five hundred,” was the reply.
“Three thousand,” “Four,” “Five,” “Six,” “Ten thousand pounds.”
The crowd, breathless, excited, listened and alternately gazed at the two bidders, who from opposite ends of the room, with dry, feverish voices, shouted defiance at each other. Everyone felt that there was some mystery here, some tragedy, the last act of which was being enacted before their eyes.
At this point the auctioneer leant forward, and addressing himself more particularly to Volenski, said—