‘What, not a day’s grace, not a day’s trust, eh?’ said Jonas bitterly. ‘Not after the pains I have taken with to-night’s work?’
‘To night’s work was a part of our bargain,’ replied Montague; ‘and so was this.’
‘You drive a hard bargain,’ said Jonas, advancing to the table. ‘You know best. Give it here!’
Montague gave him the paper. After pausing as if he could not make up his mind to put his name to it, Jonas dipped his pen hastily in the nearest inkstand, and began to write. But he had scarcely marked the paper when he started back, in a panic.
‘Why, what the devil’s this?’ he said. ‘It’s bloody!’
He had dipped the pen, as another moment showed, into red ink. But he attached a strange degree of importance to the mistake. He asked how it had come there, who had brought it, why it had been brought; and looked at Montague, at first, as if he thought he had put a trick upon him. Even when he used a different pen, and the right ink, he made some scratches on another paper first, as half believing they would turn red also.
‘Black enough, this time,’ he said, handing the note to Montague. ‘Good-bye.’
‘Going now! how do you mean to get away from here?’
‘I shall cross early in the morning to the high road, before you are out of bed; and catch the day-coach, going up. Good-bye!’
‘You are in a hurry!’