Mr. Miller dilated his nostrils. Perhaps the reek of the fort ditch reached him. Very carefully and methodically he lit a cigarette.
"Yes—and no," he answered at last, and with deliberation. "I have money with me, my dear Lord Landon. But my employers give me no commission to apply it to—charity."
Landon's eyes grew suddenly ominous.
"The price of that book was to be five hundred pounds," he said. "I have received one hundred so far."
Miller made a gesture of assent.
"You obtained for me a certain book. Subsequent investigations proved it to be a mere dummy—a book made, in fact, to be stolen. You remain in my debt to the extent of that score of five-pound notes which I gave you."
Landon laughed a dry little laugh.
"Then I concede that I shall remain in your debt—permanently. The bungling is yours, not mine. I demand the balance of my fee. For suppose, my dear Miller, that I gave your game in Gibraltar away?"
"Suppose you did," said Miller, placidly. "It would be a question of your word against mine, would it not?"
There was nothing sneering in his tone, but its bald self-assurance seemed to whip Landon's temper into fury. He swore wickedly.