"Clothes, men, money," quoth Michael, "methinks, Sir John, you have thought of everything. Once I am in Paris?"
"You will act as judgment guides you."
"And no doubt seventy thousand pounds is a good guide to judgment."
Michael's somewhat defiant manner seemed completely to have vanished. He appeared to be yielding himself quite freely to the delights of the promised adventure; at least this was what good Sir John hoped whilst congratulating himself on the remarkable attainment of his fondly-cherished desire.
But remember that this same good Sir John was no superficial observer of human nature. He was not altogether deceived by Michael's outward show of flippancy. That excitement had got hold of the adventurer's imagination was undoubted and probably the obstinacy of an untamed nature would prevent his drawing back from a promise once given.
At the same time the glint of excitement in Michael's eyes had but little genuine merriment in it. It was more like the unnatural fire produced by fever-heated blood.
It was the money which had tempted Michael—so concluded Ayloffe in his own mind. The money which mayhap would help the claimant to bring forward his cause once again into the light of day. Money which would mean bribes, high enough to tempt corrupt judges or even—who knows—a pleasure-loving King.
What Michael thought of the adventure itself, what it cost him to acquiesce in it with an outward show of careless gaiety even the astute Sir John could not have said: he himself had achieved his own ends and personally he cared little what Michael felt so long as the young man fulfilled his share of the ignoble contract.
Was it so ignoble after all? Sir John with a smile of self-contempt found himself wondering in his mind whether any one would indeed be the loser by it. Stowmaries? certainly not!—he could well afford to pay twice a hundred thousand pounds for the gratification of his most ardent desire: his freedom to marry the woman whom he loved. Michael?—of a truth Michael would lose a little more self-respect than he had already done, but then he must have so little left—and he would become passing rich.
As for the tailor's wench, bah!—one husband was as good as another, concluded Sir John with a splendid cynicism, and if Michael Kestyon was not actually Earl of Stowmaries, by Gad he was mighty near to it, and—who knows?—with one hundred and twenty thousand pounds in his pocket might yet oust his cousin from that enviable state.