“Five hundred guineas,” Ruff repeated.
“For a consultation?” Sir Richard asked.
Peter Ruff shook his head.
“More than that,” he said. “You are a brave man in your way, Sir Richard Dyson, but you are going about now shivering under a load of fear. It sits like a devil incarnate upon your shoulders. It poisons the air wherever you go. Write your cheque, Sir Richard, and you can leave that little black devil in my wastebasket. You are under my protection. Nothing will happen to you.”
Sir Richard sat like a man mesmerised. The little man with the amiable expression and the badly fitting suit was leaning back in his chair, his finger tips pressed together, waiting.
“Nothing will happen!” Sir Richard repeated, incredulously.
“Certainly not. I guarantee you against any inconvenience which might arise to you from this recent unfortunate affair. Isn’t that all you want?”
“It’s all I want, certainly,” Sir Richard declared, “but I must understand a little how you propose to secure my immunity.”
Ruff shook his head.
“I have my own methods,” he said. “I can help only those who trust me.”