Stratton’s face was ghastly now.
“I see I need say no more, sir. You are convinced Myra is my wife. There has been no divorce, you see, so you are at my mercy.”
“But she is not at yours,” cried Stratton fiercely. “You go back to your cell, sir, and she will never be polluted by the touch of such a scoundrel again.”
“Polluted? Strong language, young man, and you are losing your temper. Once more, be cool. You see I have this, and I am not a man to be trifled with. I do not intend to go back to my cell: I had enough of that yonder, but mean to take my ease for the future. These chambers are secluded; a noise here is not likely to be heard, and I should proceed to extremities if you forced me.”
“You dare to threaten me?”
“Yes, I dare to threaten you, my dear sir. But keep cool, I tell you. I didn’t come here to quarrel, but to do a little business. Did you expect me? I see you have the money ready.”
He pointed to the notes—notes to defray a blissful honeymoon trip—and Stratton had hard work to suppress a groan.
“There, I’m very sorry for you, my dear sir,” continued the scoundrel, “and I want to be friendly, both to you and poor little Myra—good little soul! She thought me dead; you thought me dead; and I dare say you love each other like pigeons. Next thing, I admired her, but she never cared a sou for me. Well, suppose I say that I’ll be dead to oblige you both. What do you say to that?”
Malcolm was silent.
“I never wanted the poor little lass. Frankly, I wanted her money, and the admiral’s too—hang the old rascal, he won about fifty pounds of me. But to continue. Now, Mr Malcolm Stratton, time is flying, and the lady will soon be at the church, where you must be first. I tell you that I will consent to keep under the tombstone where the law and society have placed me, for a handsome consideration. What do you propose?”