“If you—you will let me escape!” whispered Old Death, while his eyes seemed to penetrate to the very soul of the man towards whom he bent in a confidential way as he spoke.
“Now that’s English,” said Dykes, whose countenance gave not the least indication of the manner in which he intended to receive the proposition.
“And—and you will agree, won’t you?” asked Bones. “Remember—five thousand guineas—all to be paid in one lump—this very night——”
“Well, now—it can’t be done, old chap,” interrupted Dykes, in a cool—almost brutal manner, as if he were glad of the opportunity to encourage hope for a time, merely for the sake of destroying it with a rude hand and in an abrupt way.
“It can’t be done,” murmured Old Death, despair seizing upon him: “it can’t be done, you say?”—and his eyes glanced wildly around.
“Is this all you have to tell me?” demanded the officer. “Because, if so——”
“Five thousand guineas!—and he refuses it!” ejaculated Bones. “My God! what will become of me?—what will become of me?”
And still his looks wandered rapidly about the apartment.
“Now, then—let as go back into the next room, if you please,” said Dykes; “for I don’t see no use in staying here, wasting our time.”
At that instant Old Death’s eyes settled upon something on a shelf close at hand; and, suddenly springing aside, he seized upon a bottle—the particular object for which he had been searching with his eager glances.