Miller watched him as the weasel might be expected to watch the trapped rat. And the dark, unpleasant little room had, indeed, many of the attributes of a cage.
And then there was an energetic gesture from the gray-clad arm.
"You bungled the matter—not in stealing the wrong book," said Miller, "but in the manner of your escape. It was then that you lost your value to my employers. You are liable to be arrested in any of the British dominions. Till that matter is settled, you are a weapon without an edge, for us. That error must be repaired."
Landon stared up at him curiously.
"How?" he asked.
Miller made a significant gesture towards the child. There was no intention of menace in it, but the child shrank back, turning, not towards his father, but with a sudden instinctive outstretching of his hand to Muhammed. The Moor grasped the little fingers silently and smiled—a smile which faded as he turned his keen, watchful eyes again upon the visitor.
"You must renounce your detention of your son," said Miller. "You must bargain with his grandfather. Your price must be a certain competency, if you will, but above all the right to return unquestioned into your proper place in society. In this way alone can you continue to be of use—to me."
There was a silence. Landon, still a-squat upon the floor, his elbow on his knee, the heel of his fist supporting his hand, stared up at his mentor with impassive eyes. In the shadow on his right Muhammed stood, still holding the child's hand, his glance hovering over Miller with a speculation which was almost distrust. Behind him the tailor stitched apathetically at his dilapidated wares.
Suddenly Landon turned to the Moor.
"You have heard?" he questioned sharply.