“So,” I cried, “the secret is out! I must compliment you on a most insatiable appetite. But, believe me, you have more chance of acquiring the roc’s egg than the handful!”
He looked at me long and gloomily. I could feel rather than hear him echo: “The handful.” But he made a great effort to resume his conciliatory tone when he spoke again.
“You jump to hot-headed conclusions. It was a simple idea of the moment, and as you choose to misinterpret it, let it be forgotten. The main point is, are we to be friends again?”
“And I repeat that we can’t resume what never existed. This posturing is stupid farce that had best end. Shall we make the question conditional? That cameo, that you have come into possession of—we won’t hazard a supposition by what means—restore it, at least, to its rightful owner as an earnest of your single-mindedness. I, who am to inherit it in the end, give you full permission.”
He started back, and his face went the color of a withered aspen leaf.
“It’s mine,” he cried, shrilly. “I wouldn’t part with it to the queen!”
“See then! What am I to believe?”
I walked close up to him. His fingers itched to strike me, I could see.
“Dr. Crackenthorpe,” I said, “you had best have spared yourself this errand. Why, what a poor scamp you must be to think to take me in with such a fusty trick. Make the most of what you’ve got. You’ll not have another stiver from us. Look elsewhere for a victim. Your evil mission in life is the hounding of the wretched. Mine, you know. Some clews are already in my hand, and, if there is one man in the world I should rejoice to drag down—you are he!”
He walked to the door, and, turning, stamped his foot furiously down on the boards.