"And your terms?" asked de Vautrin quietly.
Barry Quinlevin pocketed the copy of the birth certificate which Monsieur de Vautrin had put upon the table.
"As to terms, that won't be made difficult. The estate of Patrick Callonby was reckoned at a million pounds sterling—we'll say twenty millions of francs or thereabouts—since ye're not a man of business and allowing for depreciation. Give yer daughter proper securities to the amount of one third of her fortune and she will assign the other two thirds to you——"
Quinlevin paused, for when the terms were mentioned Monsieur de Vautrin had begun to smile and now burst into an unpleasant laugh.
"Well, Monsieur de Vautrin," broke off Quinlevin angrily.
"It's merely," he replied, "that you don't figure enough for depreciation."
"What do ye mean?"
"Twenty-one years is a long while. And you are right when you say that I am no man of business. My fortune has diminished year by year and since the war—pouf! it has vanished into thin air. The estate of Patrick Callonby, Monsieur, is now a myth."
Barry Quinlevin rose, trying to keep his temper.
"There are ways of verifying yer statements, Monsieur."