Bartley Bradstone shuddered and sank into a chair.
“I tell you, I can’t do it,” he said.
Seth looked round at the handsomely furnished room, at the costly hangings, the rows on rows of elegantly bound books and silver knick-knacks on the tables, the carved oak and beveled mirrors, and laughed again.
“It won’t do, guv’nor,” he said. “Look ’ee here,” and he leaned forward and shook his fist in Bartley Bradstone’s face, “I’m not to be trifled with. Give the money I asks yer for, or I go and give the police the information I have offered you. They’ll pay for it, and be only too glad.”
Bartley Bradstone rose and nerved himself for the struggle.
“What information can you give them? You say you know something of this murder. How much?”
“Everything,” retorted Seth. “Why, guv’nor——”
He bent forward and whispered a few words in Bartley Bradstone’s ear.
Bartley Bradstone shrank back, and great beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead; but then, bracing himself together, he laughed.
“Oh! that is it, is it?” he said. “My friend, you know too much. You threaten me! You seem to have forgotten that a man who knows so much, very probably knows more than is safe for himself.”