‘You know,’ Barter began angrily; and then the hectic flush of courage died, and a dreadful chill of fear succeeded it. What had he known? He had only guessed—till now. But now, young Mr. Barter felt, to employ the expressive ideas of his set, that he had given himself away. Steinberg capped the question in his mind. What did I know last night?
‘You haven’t come to waste your time or mine, I suppose? You’ve come to say something. Why not say it?’
His guest, sitting in a terrible confusion, and feeling himself altogether betrayed and lost, Steinberg marched to the door, and addressing the boy in the outer room, bade him carry the letter to the post and return no more that day. Then, having locked the outer door, he returned and resumed his seat.
‘Now, what is it?’ he asked.
Barter, recognising the fact that his own purpose was already exposed, made a desperate dash.
‘About those notes old Bommaney was supposed to have run away with. I think—I think, mind you, that if there was any way of using them, I could lay my hands upon them.’
‘I remember,’ said Steinberg, ‘you said something of the kind last night. I shouldn’t advise you to touch ‘em. It’s a dangerous game. They’re very worthless, and the game isn’t worth the candle.’
‘Worthless?’ echoed Barter. ‘They’re worth eight thousand pounds.’
‘They’re worth eight thousand pounds,’ responded Steinberg, ‘to the man they belong to. They’re not worth eight hundred to anybody else.’
Young Mr. Barter’s whole soul seemed to rise in protest against this abominable fallacy. When he had screwed up his courage so far as to induce himself to accept this older and more experienced scoundrel’s partnership, he had conceived the possibility of the partner crying out for halves. But that he should want so enormous a share of the spoil was quite intolerable.