“Come to ruin me, you mean.”
“Wrong. I have my cheque book in my pocket, and if you want a few hundreds to carry on the war, here they are.”
“At the old rate,” sneered Glyddyr.
“No, my dear fellow. I must have a little more. The risk is big.”
“Yes. Might fail, and blow out my brains.”
“Ex-actly! How I do like this country cream.”
Glyddyr threw himself into his seat with a crash.
“That was all a metaphor,” he said bitterly.
“What was, dear boy?”
“About the Devil and Dr Faustus.”