"Oh, Mr. Bullard, surely you don't distrust me."
Bullard appeared to reflect, and said harshly: "One more chance. Bring the box here at ten to-morrow morning, and I'll give you two hundred extra, you dirty little thief!"
"Five hundred, Mr. Bullard," said Marvel gently. He could have hugged himself.
Again Bullard appeared to be lost in thought, his fingers toyed with the nugget on his chain. At last he said sullenly: "I might have known you would try it on, you scoundrel. But I must have the box first thing in the morning. It's awkward enough not to have it tonight." He turned to his desk and picked up an envelope with a typewritten address. He sat staring at it as though he had forgotten Marvel's presence.
Suddenly he wheeled and spoke. "You shall have five hundred in the morning—"
"And four hundred to-night, Mr. Bullard."
"Yes—an hour hence. Do you know the Victoria Docks?—Of course you do. Well, the street named here"—he tapped the envelope—"is close to them. Deliver this letter and bring me back an answer—and the four hundred are yours. Hold your tongue! The thing is too private for an ordinary messenger. It's entirely owing to your vile behaviour that this letter must be delivered to-night. Will you take it, or must I take it myself? Mind, if I do, you can go to the devil for your four hundred, ay, and the five hundred to boot. I've stood the limit from you, Marvel, and I'm quite equal to locking you up in our strong-room here till you're ready and eager to give up the box for nothing!"
"Come, come, Mr. Bullard," said Marvel, rising, "there's no need for all this—this roughness. I'll take the letter with pleasure if you'll give me a couple of hundred to go on with."
Bullard tossed the letter back on the desk, and proceeded to light a cigar.
Marvel took a step forward. "I was only joking, Mr. Bullard. I'll take your message, and trust you."