A stream of profanity burst from Goldschmidt's lips.
"You see I am in a position to prove my points," said Malcolm Sage calmly.
"Oh! you are, are you?" sneered the spokesman, as he moved a little closer to Malcolm Sage, "and I am in the position to prove that we're four to one."
"Three to one," corrected Malcolm Sage quietly. "Your friend," indicating Goldschmidt, with a nod, "is scarcely——"
He was interrupted by a stifled oath from the armchair.
"Good old Nigger!" murmured one of the men by the door.
"Well, and what about it?" demanded Nigger.
"If Burns is delivered over to me within two hours, unharmed and in fighting trim, and a cheque for 1,000 pounds is paid to St. Timothy's Hospital by noon to-morrow, there will be no prosecution, and I will not divulge your names. If not, during the next twenty-four hours, London will probably have its first experience of lynch-law."
With that Malcolm Sage struck a match and proceeded to light his pipe.
"That all?" sneered the man. "Ain't there nothink else you'd like?"