“Nonsense!” said Dulcet. “It isn't worth half that. I would not dream of selling it for more than seventy-five.”
Basswood looked startled.
“I guess you are not in touch with the market for such things,” he said. “There is more interest among collectors in Digby's work than in any other recent writer. Perhaps you don't realize what a difference his sad death has made in the prices of his editions. It is very regrettable, but the death of a writer of that kind always puts a premium on collectors' items, because there will never be any more of them.”
“Oh, I see,” said Dulcet, politely. “It is his death that has made the difference, is it?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, then, I suppose this manuscript is worth more than I thought. By the way, I think the title of it will interest you. It is called 'The Mystery of the Soft Collars' and deals with a murder that took place on Eighty-second Street.”
I couldn't help admiring the glorious nonchalance with which Dulcet made this remark, gazing the dealer straight in the eye. Basswood's face was a study, and his cheek was pale and greasy. But he, too, was a man of considerable nerve.
“I don't believe it's genuine,” he said. “That doesn't sound to me like Digby's style.” His voice shook a little, and he added: “However, if it's as interesting as it sounds, I might pay even more than two hundred for it.”
“You rascal!” shouted Dulcet. “Do you think you can buy me off? No! keep your hands above the counter!”
He had whipped out his revolver, and held it at the man's face.