“To hand you over to the police,” said Stratton firmly, but with despair in his tone.
“No, you do not. You propose to give me the money on the table there, to sign an agreement to pay me three hundred a year as long as I keep dead, and then to go and wed your pretty widow, and be off to the continent or elsewhere.”
Bigamy—blackmailed by a scoundrel who would make his life a hell—through constant threats to claim his wife—a score of such thoughts flashed through Stratton’s brain as he stood there before the cool, calculating villain watching him so keenly. Money was no object to him. Mr Brettison would let him have any amount, but it was madness to think of such a course. There was only one other—to free the innocent, pure woman he idolised from the persecution of such a wretch, and the law would enable him to do that.
Malcolm Stratton’s mind was made up, and he stood there gazing full in his visitor’s eyes.
“Well,” said the man coolly, “time is on the wing, as I said before. How much is there under that letter weight?”
“One hundred and fifty pounds,” said Stratton quietly.
“Write me a cheque for three hundred and fifty pounds then, and the bargain is closed.”
“Not for a penny,” said Stratton quietly.
“You will. The lady is waiting.”
“So are the police.”