"One hundred and twenty thousand pounds."
"One hundred—"
"And twenty thousand pounds," repeated Sir John with slow emphasis.
"Bah!—'tis a stupid and a purposeless lie!"
And Michael striving to look indifferent leaned back in his chair, then fell forward again with elbows resting heavily on the table the while his eyes glowing with the excitement of heady liquor and the vague suggestion only half expressed searched the face of the older man.
"Who would give a ne'er-do-well one hundred and twenty thousand pounds?" he reiterated in an unsteady voice, "and for what purpose? Are you fooling me, Sir John?"
"On my solemn word of honour, no!" asserted the latter calmly.
"Then for what purpose?" repeated Michael, whilst a sneer which looked almost evil for a moment quite distorted his face. "Am I to murder some offending stranger in the dark? bribe the King's physician to poison him, or turn informant against my cousin's co-religionists in England as is the fashion nowadays? Well! tell me what it is? Have I not told you that I am rogue enough to accomplish mine own damnation—at a price."
"My good Michael, you mistake my meaning. I propose no roguery unworthy a gentleman. An you'll accept my offer you'd have no cause to regret it, for you'd be a rich, happy and contented man to the last day of your life."
"An it were so simple as that, man," quoth Michael drily, "you'd have no need to offer a fortune to a rogue in order to get what you want. As for the rest, methinks that most rogueries are unworthy a gentleman. But then you see I am no gentleman, else I were not here now, and probably had long ere this flung my glove in your face. So out with it—you offer me one hundred and twenty thousand pounds—for what?"