“Suppose they find me out?” replied Mesty.
“You will be safe, and you shall be sent away as soon as possible—say, will you consent?”
“The whole thousand dollars?”
“Every one of them.”
“Den give me the powder?”
“Stay a little,” replied the friar, who went out of the cell, and, in about ten minutes, returned with an answer to our hero’s letter and a paper containing a grayish powder.
“Give him this in his soup or anything—spread it on his meat, or mix it up with his sugar if he eats an orange.”
“I see,” replied Mesty.
“The dollars shall be yours. I swear it on the holy cross.”
Mesty grinned horribly, took his credentials, and then asked, “When I come again?”