“No.”
“You refuse to give it up?”
“I have nothing to give you.”
At last, Bruant realized that the American could not be wheedled or frightened into handing over the metal ball. Indeed, all this talk had been a waste of words, and the anger in Bruant’s heart was intense. A sudden idea came to him. One thing he had not tried. Fool that he was, he had forgotten that all Americans are ready to sell their very souls for money!
The Strangler grinned with sudden satisfaction. He leaned on the table close by the lamp, lowering his voice.
“Monsieur American,” he said, “what you have is very valuable to me, and I am willing to pay for it. I was wrong in not coming to an understanding concerning its value at once. I will buy it from you, and you shall be well paid.”
There was a dark frown on the face of Frank Merriwell, and he looked as if he longed to dash his clenched fist into the evil face that was grinning at him with sudden satisfaction.
“You have made a mistake, Monsieur Strangler,” he said grimly. “I have nothing to sell you.”
Bruant stared.
“But, perhaps, you doubt that I will pay? Oh, I can give you positive assurance of that!”