Panting as much with rage as want of breath, the gypsy glowered down upon him.
“You’re a pretty customer to deal with,” he said. “Get up! Put your hand on me again and I’ll—I’ll kill you. Now, what do you mean to do? You ain’t got to deal with a helpless woman, Mr. Bradstone, but with a man. Will yer give me the thousand pounds now, or shall I take this letter to the police?”
Bartley Bradstone got up and leaned against a tree.
“I’ll give it you,” he said.
“Walk in front, then,” said Seth, motioning to him suddenly.
Breathing hard, he obeyed. Thus they went slowly to The Maples. Bartley Bradstone unlocked the door and went into the library. Seth looked round.
“Give me something to drink,” he said, hoarsely.
Bartley Bradstone, without a word, as if he were completely cowed, went to the sideboard and got out the brandy. Seth instantly took the decanter from his hand and helped himself.
“Now,” he said, “look sharp—the money—the money!”
Bartley Bradstone drew a checkbook from a drawer. Seth watched him suspiciously.