Mr. Smythe hesitated—only for a moment.
"Twenty thousand be it," he said. "If I marry Lady Ethel I pay you twenty thousand, and if I don't——"
"I pay you," said Mr. Murpoint, softly. "It's a wager."
And he held out his long, clawlike, white hand.
Mr. Smythe rose, clasped it eagerly, and, after a fervent and excited "Good-night," took his departure.
It was morning, bright, beaming morning, by that time, and Mr. Murpoint had too many great matters on hand to allow of his retiring to rest.
Instead he stepped into a cold bath which was ready for him in an adjoining room, and, dressing himself in his business suit of dark Oxford mixture with an imposing white waistcoat, made his way to his office in Pall Mall.
Seating himself in his chair in his own private room he touched a small bell.
In answer to the summons there entered a tall, thin and cadaverous-looking man with a small dispatch case.
"Good-morning, Ridgett," said Mr. Murpoint.