“I do,” said Seth, seating himself on a corner of the costly inlaid table and kicking his leg to and fro in an insolent fashion.
“You do!” said Bartley Bradstone, with a long breath. “I was just going to offer a hundred pounds reward for such information as would lead to the discovery of the man who committed the crime. I will give you that hundred pounds now if you will tell me what you know.”
Seth stared at him, then smacked his leg and laughed.
“A hundred pounds! I should think so! If you was to ask me, I should consider it cheap at a thousand, and that’s the figure I mean to ask for it. And if yer takes my advice, the advice of a man as don’t wish you no particular harm, you’ll hand over that thousand pounds, and say no more about it. You can rely on me. I can keep my mouth shut. I’m sick o’ England, and I’m ready to go wherever you like and keep there.”
Bartley Bradstone remained silent for a moment or two, then he said, huskily:
“Supposing your information were worth the money, my man, I could not give it you.”
Seth stared and laughed incredulously.
Bartley Bradstone bit his lip.
“What I tell you is true. I can no more give you a thousand pounds than you can give it to me.”
“Now, guv’nor, come, no gammon,” said Seth, impatiently. “If you’ve got any sense, any gratitood, you’d fork out the money and say ‘thank you.’ What’s a thousand pounds when a man’s life’s at stake!”