“Don’t start that junk,” Hartwell intervened. “You were doped by the nigger and carried down here. We want some money from you, Pratt.”
“Does this seem a reasonable way to get it?” Jacob enquired, looking down at the marks on his wrists.
“I guess it’ll do the trick,” was the gruff rejoinder.
“Well, get on with the programme, then,” Jacob directed.
“We’re going to let you off cheap,” Mason said. “There’s your cheque book on the table there, and a fountain pen by the side. If you are willing to sign an open cheque for five thousand pounds, payable to Miss Sybil Bultiwell, you can dine at home to-night.”
“Why to Miss Bultiwell?”
“Because we think it well to have Miss Bultiwell formally associated with the transaction,” Mason explained, with a crafty smile. “Miss Bultiwell will endorse the cheque and receive her share of the—er—proceeds.”
Jacob turned a little in his chair, so as to face Sybil. She met his gaze defiantly.
“It was scarcely necessary to resort to such means as these, Miss Bultiwell, if you were in need of five thousand pounds, or any part of it,” he said quietly.