Gilead, a stern triumphant light in his eyes, faced him.
“I have changed my mind, sir,” he said. “I desire a deal, but in paper, not in marble. Where is the promissory note you hold in the name of Felix Dobell?”
The moneylender turned momentarily as white as the bust itself, but recovered his nerve, and stood staring, between astonishment and anger.
“What’s this?” he exclaimed. “Who the devil are you?”
“My name, sir,” answered the client, “is Gilead Balm.”
“Gilead—!” the man started back; then fawned in the most fulsome spirit of sycophancy. “Mr Balm!—you—you surprise me, sir.”
“I wish for that paper.”
“You shall have it, sir.” He slunk to the other safe, extracted a note, and returned with it. “You shall have it, sir—I’m sure, sir, to oblige Mr Balm—at the price of the accommodation.”
Gilead accepted the draft and tore it into fifty pieces.
“There is your accommodation, sir,” he said. “I give you what you gave for it—nothing.”