“Let it be five guineas apiece to-night,” squeaks the Baronet, “and the remainder when the business is done?”
“The devil knock you into hell with your, ‘when the business is done!’” mutters the other. “We’s doin’ your job for you for little enough. Tain’t everyone as’d h’undertake the funeral of a h’Earl’s heir like Sir Percy de Bohun——”
Her Ladyship’s like now to fall in a swoon; but not she; only leans she a bit against the bricks, her bosom heaving, her eyes dilating, her lips bitten in until they are almost bleeding.
“Hush-h-h! no names, you varlets!” interrupts Sir Robin.
“Hey?” responds the other, “the walls ain’t got no h’ears, and if they ’ad wot I’m a-sayin’s the cussid truth, eh, Bloksey?”
Bloksey grunts.
“The town’ll be afire when it’s out that a gallant like ’im that’s heir to Lord Gower’s been done fer; and then, my fine gentleman, who’s to pay for’t, if we’s caught and if we ’appens to be seen by any one when we’re a doin’ of your job? No, money all down now, or Sir Percy lives as long as ’e likes, for us!”
Peg’s hand’s upon the hilt of her sword.
Shall she spring and run Sir Robin through?
Shall she hide and buy the rascals out at a higher price than he has paid?