Mr. Bindley, his complexion of a fine purple hue, stood staring at Mr. Dobb.
“It’s a dirty trick!” he gasped at last.
“Dessay,” said Mr. Dobb. “We’ve all got to live.”
“And if—if I was fool enough to buy your confounded shandyleary, how do I know you wouldn’t diddle me again? You might keep some of them jewels back and—”
“Not a bit of it,” said Mr. Dobb, quite eagerly. “I’d be glad to ’ave finished with such trickery on the public. You give me a cheque for that shandyleary, and you can take the jew’l’ry away with you when you go, if you like. You’ll know it ain’t safe to stop the cheque, because that would lead to all sorts of hinquiries, and—”
“I shouldn’t dream of giving you a cheque. You’d blackmail me again over that, some’ow. But I’ve got some notes on me—”
“Forty quid?” asked Mr. Dobb, urbanely. “That’s the price up-to-date, you know.”
“Where’s the shandyleary?” growled Mr. Bindley.
“Downstairs in my cellar. And ’ere’s the jew’l’ry.”
“All of it?”