"These letters seem to bear Hosley's name," said I; "they might help us—in fact, I am glad you took the pains to bring them to me. Are there any more?" He might not have noticed how anxious I was to have them all.
"Yes, you have the complete and most damaging documents in the case," he answered. "They only need your identification, or if there should be any handwriting for comparison, you can understand—yes, just so—why, it would be easy without your evidence. I see you appreciate their enormous value."
This fellow was getting around to talk cash in a way that made me squirm, and as he eased off again his pain kept him engaged and gave me a chance to think. When I wrote those letters I thought they were pretty nice, but I never put any cash value on them, and never supposed there would be any market for them.
"Mr. Obreeon," said I, "about what would compensate you for your trouble in gathering up those letters?" I was calm.
"One thousand dollars." And as he said it his pain left him and shot into me.
I rocked and gripped the chair. I could see there was no use to get mad and talk loud, for he had me where there was only one move I could make without getting in check, and that was into my pocketbook. Besides, if I talked too much he might find where I came in on the thing.
"Five hundred, cash down, I'll give you," said I, trying to look disinterested, as if I dealt in autographs and letters of great men.
"One thousand dollars, hair and all," said he, rubbing his palms in a net-price manner.
"Hair?"
"Yes; there's a lock of Hosley's hair and some rings—everything is included in my price."