“One word—one word only,” murmured Bones, in a low, guttural, sepulchral tone, while his frame shook with nervous excitement: “one word, I say—only one word.”
“Now, then—what is it?” asked Dykes, suffering the old man to draw him towards the recess containing the door which opened into the laboratory.
“I must speak to you in private—I have something particular to tell you,” was the urgent and impatient reply. “Come into this room—I shan’t keep you a moment.”
“Well—I suppose I must humour you,” said the officer, in a surly tone. “One should look upon you as a dead man; for besides your nick-name, the law will soon make you one in right good earnest.”
With this brutal jest—brutal even in respect to so awful a miscreant as Old Death—the Bow Street functionary conducted him into the laboratory, where a light happened to be burning, and the door of which apartment Benjamin Bones closed cautiously behind them.
“Now, then—make haste, and tell us all you have got to say,” said Dykes, eyeing the old man suspiciously and in such a meaning fashion as to imply that any attempt at escape would assuredly prove abortive.
“Mr. Dykes, you are a good man—and a kind man—I know you are,” began Old Death, in a coaxing tone and with a manner indicating the most dreadful state of nervous excitement: “you would not like to see a poor, miserable old creature like myself sent to—to—the scaffold. No—no—you would not—you would not. But I know that it must be made worth your while—you understand me—and—and—I will give you all I have—yes, all I have—several thousand pounds—for I have got several thousands!” he added, with a ghastly grin. “But no one knows where they are except myself,—and you and I can go together to the place—and I will give you every guinea—yes, every guinea, Mr. Dykes—remember, every guinea I say—if you will agree to this.”
“Agree to what?” demanded Dykes, affecting not to comprehend the old villain.
“Oh! just as if you didn’t understand me, my dear friend—my good, kind friend!” exclaimed Benjamin Bones, becoming more coaxing in his tone, which was as low and subdued as his sepulchral voice would admit. “Do consider for an instant—an old man like me to be in such trouble! You wouldn’t be happy if you had it on your mind that you had been the means—the actual means of sending such a wretched creature as myself to the scaffold? Speak to me, Mr. Dykes! Five thousand pounds—yes—five thousand pounds, in good gold guineas—if—if——”
“If what?” asked the officer, with the most provoking determination not to understand any thing that was not explained in unmistakeable words.