"I can't, I won't!—that is, not yet! I tell you I cannot face the thought of her, much less the sight of her, and her family,—that Valencia! I'd rather the earth should open and swallow me! Don't talk to me, I say!"
And hiding his face in his hands, he writhed with pain, while Thurnall stood still patiently watching him, as a pointer dog does a partridge. He had found his game, and did not intend to lose it.
"I am better now; quite well!" said he, as the laudanum began to work.
"Yes! I'll go—that will be it—go to —— at once. He'll give me an
order for a magazine article; I'll earn ten pounds, and then off to
Italy."
"If you want ten pounds, my good fellow, you can have them without racking your brains over an article." Elsley looked up proudly.
"I do not borrow, sir!"
"Well—I'll give you five for those pistols. They are of no use to you, and I shall want a spare brace for the East."
"Ah! I forgot them. I spent my last money on them," said he with a shudder; "but I won't sell them to you at a fancy price—no dealings between gentleman and gentleman. I'll go to a shop, and get for them what they are worth."
"Very good. I'll go with you, if you like. I fancy I may get you a better price for them than you would yourself: being rather a knowing one about the pretty little barkers." And Tom took his arm, and walked him quietly down into the street.
"If you ever go up those kennel-stairs again, friend," said he to himself, "my name's not Tom Thurnall."
They walked to a gunsmith's shop in the Strand, where Tom had often dealt, and sold the pistols for some three pounds.