"You can't. You told me just now that you were struggling against many difficulties. How much are you going to give these scoundrels?"
"A mere trifle—nothing beyond my means—"
"How much?" demanded old Michael, imperatively.
"Two hundred pounds."
"Two hundred pounds! It can't—and it shan't be done, Mr. Tomlinson. You have not got two hundred pounds: I know you have not."
"I am to receive five hundred this evening for certain professional services to be rendered," said Tomlinson; "and I can readily spare a portion to ensure a silence which is necessary not only to your safety but to mine."
"True—your safety," muttered old Michael, whose thoughts seemed ever fixed upon the welfare of his late employer. "Well—well, I suppose it must be done. Do it, then."
Another long pause ensued.
Suddenly Martin turned towards Tomlinson, and said, in a sharp querulous tone, "You told me that you were going to receive five hundred pounds this evening?"
"Such is my hope," answered the stock-broker, averting his glances from the old man.