He said the last words with a forced laugh, and took a step or two forward in a jaunty fashion, in wonderful contrast with his manner an hour or so before.
“Now, then, Mr Stratton, we’ll forget all that, please. Sit down, as I said before, and write that cheque.”
Stratton stood motionless in the middle of the room, with his eyes fixed upon his visitor; and his strength of mind and determination seemed to grow rapidly. The old nervous horror was gone, and, quite equal to his task, he never for a moment removed his eyes from his adversary.
“Come, we’re wasting time, Mr Stratton. You’re wanted yonder. No more shilly-shallying, please; that cheque.”
“Fetch the police, Brettison,” said Stratton sternly; and, in obedience to the order, Brettison took a step forward, while the savage aspect came again into the ex-convict’s countenance as he took a step back and covered the door.
“No, you don’t,” he said, making a gesture as if tugging a pistol from his pocket. “I warn you both, I’m a desperate man. I’ve been skulking about for over a twelvemonth now, waiting for my chance, and it’s come. I’ll have that money before I go. Write out that cheque, and get it cashed. Send him, I say again, to get the money; and as for you,” he snarled, as he turned his eyes on Brettison, “you play any games, you so much as look at a policeman while you are out, and I warn you he’ll suffer for it before you can break in here with any of your cursed hounds.”
“It’s of no use,” said Brettison hoarsely. “Let him say how much he wants, and I’ll write a cheque and get the money.”
“Hah! That’s talking sense,” said the man exultantly, but never for a moment relaxing his watchfulness—keeping his eyes upon Stratton, but noting as well Brettison’s actions as he took out his pocketbook and drew a blank cheque from one of the folds.
“How much must I draw this for, Mr Cousin?” he said hurriedly.
“Cousin? Who’s Mr Cousin? Draw it to James Barron, Esquire. No. What for? Draw it to yourself. Five hundred pounds, now.”