“Well, as to that,” he said, “I have something to say. In the meantime, I am to congratulate you, and myself, on the correctness of your surmise.”
“She was there—at Pugsley’s?”
“Yes.”
“Well, sir?”
“I have full hopes the matter may be accommodated—hushed up. It comes to be merely a question of the figure.”
“Good God, sir!”
We stopped simultaneously, falling apart. For a moment a silence fell between us. The colour had left his face a little; but his mouth was set in a line of resolution—defiance, even.
“Do you mean to tell me, sir,” I said in a low voice, “that what you are implying is a money compromise with Mr Dalston?”
“Yes, that is exactly it,” he answered shortly.
I drew and expelled a deep breath. It was to be battle, then—my rights against a sentiment.