“I wish you a pleasant journey,” continued the Abbé. “Had you not better go now and make the necessary preparations?”
Then, as soon as the door closed on Florian, who walked out dejectedly, without another word, he grasped Captain Bold’s arm, and laughed a low, mocking laugh.
“Business increases, captain,” said he. “Yours is a trade sure to thrive, for its occasions come up fresh every day. Did you hear that Sir George Hamilton possesses a paper I require? and that he proceeds to London to-night?”
“I heard it,” answered the captain, doggedly.
He, too, knew something of Sir George, and did not much relish the job which he began to suspect was provided for him.
“That paper must be in my hands before daybreak,” continued the Abbé, speaking in such low, distinct accents, as his emissary had already learned admitted of no appeal. “You will name your own price, Captain Bold, and you will bring me what I require—as little blood on it as possible—at least two hours before dawn.”
The captain pondered, and his face fell.
“Do you know how Sir George travels?” said he, in his high, quavering voice, more tremulous than its wont. “There has been such a press of work lately that I am rather short both of men and horses. If he takes anything like a following with him it might come to a coil; and such jobs won’t bear patching. They must be done clean or let alone. That’s my principle! He’s a cock of the game, this, you see,” added the captain, apologetically; “and you’ll not cut his comb without a thick pair of gloves on, I’ll warrant him!”
“Permit me to observe, my friend,” replied Malletort, coolly, “that this is a mere matter of detail with which I can have no concern. It is not the least in my line, but exclusively in yours. Must I repeat? You name your own price, and work in your own way.”