“What do you want here?” he asked.
The other man laughed. “Isn’t that a curious question when the place is mine? You don’t seem overjoyed to see me come to life again.”
Witham sat down and slowly lighted a cigar. “We need not go into that. I asked you what you want.”
“Well,” said Courthorne dryly, “it is not a great deal. Only the means to live in a manner more befitting a gentleman than I have been able to do lately.”
“You have not been prospering?” and Witham favoured his companion with a slow scrutiny.
“No,” and Courthorne laughed again. “You see, I could pick up a tolerable living as Lance Courthorne, but there is very little to be made at my business when you commence in new fields as an unknown man.”
“Well,” said Witham coldly, “I don’t know that it wouldn’t be better to face my trial than stay here at your mercy. So far as my inclinations go, I would sooner fight than have any further dealings with a man like you.”
Courthorne shook his head. “I fixed up the thing too well, and you would be convicted. Still, we’ll not go into that, and you will not find me unreasonable. A life at Silverdale would not suit me, and you know by this time that it would be difficult to sell the place, while I don’t know where I could find a tenant who would farm it better than you. That being so, it wouldn’t be good policy to bleed you too severely. Still, I want a thousand dollars in the meanwhile. They’re mine, you see.”
Witham sat still a minute. He was sensible of a fierce distrust and hatred of the man before him, but he felt he must at least see the consummation of his sowing.
“Then you shall have them on condition that you go away, and stay away, until harvest is over. After that I will send for you and shall have more to tell you. If in the meantime you come back here, or hint that I am Witham, I will surrender to the police or decide our differences in another fashion.”