“Was I?”
“Were you? You said the money would be here waiting for me—well, here I am now, I’ve got a cab outside ready to take it.”
“And suppose I don’t give it to you?” asked Jones.
“We won’t suppose any nonsense like that!” replied Voles taking his seat, “not so long as there are policemen to be called at a minute’s notice.”
“That’s true,” said the other, “we don’t want the police.”
“You don’t,” replied Voles. He was staring at Jones. The Earl of Rochester’s voice struck him as not quite the same as usual, more spring in it and vitality—altered in fact. But he suspected nothing of the truth. Passed as good coin by Voles, Jones had nothing to fear from any man or woman in London, for the eye of Voles was unerring, the ear of Voles ditto, the mind of Voles balanced like a jeweller’s scales.
“True,” said Jones. “I don’t—well, let’s talk about this money. Couldn’t you take half to-night, and half in a week’s time?”
“Not me,” replied the other. “I must have the two thousand to-night, same as usual.”
Jones had the whole case in his hands now, and he began preparing the toast on which to put this most evident blackmailer when cooked.
His quick mind had settled everything. Here was the first obstacle in his path, it would have to be destroyed, not surmounted. He determined to destroy it. If the worst came to the worst, if whatever crime Rochester had committed were to be pressed home on him by Voles, he would declare everything, prove his identity by sending for witnesses from the States, and show Rochester’s letter. The blackmailing would account for Rochester’s suicide.