It was a dark and gusty night. Very few people were about. Skinner waited a little while, and shivered, for his avarice had postponed the purchase of a greatcoat until Christmas Day. At last, when the coast seemed clear, Mr. Hardie emerged from a side street. Skinner put his hand to his bosom.
They met. Mr. Hardie said quietly, “I must ask you, just for form, to show me you have the Receipt.”
“Of course, sir; but not so near, please: no snatching, if I know it.”
“You are wonderfully suspicious,” said Mr. Hardie, trying to smile.
Skinner looked, and saw by the lamplight he was deadly pale. “Keep your distance a moment, sir,” said he, and, on Mr. Hardie's complying, took the Receipt out, and held it under the lamp.
Instantly Mr. Hardie drew a life-preserver, and sprang on him with a savage curse—and uttered a shriek of dismay, for he was met by the long shiny barrel of a horse-pistol, that Skinner drew from his bosom, and levelled full in the haggard face that came at him. Mr. Hardie recoiled, crying, “No! no! for Heaven's sake!”
“What!” cried Skinner, stepping forward and hissing, “do you think I'm such a fool as to meet a thief unarmed? Come, cash up, or I'll blow you to atoms.”
“No, no, no!” said Mr. Hardie piteously, retreating as Skinner marched on him with long extended pistol. “Skinner,” he stammered, “th-this is n-not b-b-business.”
“Cash up, then; that's business. Fling the five hundred pounds down, and walk away. Mind it is loaded with two bullets; I'll make a double entry on your great treacherous carcass.”
“It's no use trying to deceive such a man as you,” said Mr. Hardie, playing on his vanity. “I could not get the money before Saturday, and so I listened to the dictates of despair. Forgive me.”