He went to the bureau and took a sheet of note paper, which he laid before the other.
“Write,” said he. “I will dictate. Begin June 2nd.”
Voles put the date.
“‘My Lord,’” went on the dictator. “‘This is to promise you that to-morrow morning I will hand to the messenger you send to me all the papers of yours in my possession. I confess to having held those papers over you for the purpose of blackmail, and of having obtained from you the sum of eight thousand pounds, and I promise to amend my ways, and to endeavour to lead an honest life.
Signed. A. S. Voles.’“
To The Earl of Rochester.
That was the letter.
Three times the rogue at the table refused to go on writing, and three times his master went to the door, the rattle of the door handle always inspiring the scribe to renewed energy.
When the thing was finished Jones read it over, blotted it, and put it in his pocket with the cheque.
“Now you can go,” said he. “I will send a man to-morrow morning at eight o’clock to your home for the papers. I will not use this letter against you, unless you give trouble—Well, what do you want?”
“Brandy,” gasped Voles. “For God’s sake some brandy.”