At last he spoke. "No; I will bring one hundred pounds, and I will tell you how you may earn—earn mind—the remaining four. If you accept the job—not a difficult one—you will give me the papers in exchange for the hundred."
"But—"
"Not another word. Take my offer or leave it." Bullard turned to his desk. "And don't dare to lie to me again. Also, ask yourself what chance your word would have against mine in a court of law?"
At the end of twenty seconds the other said quickly: "I will be here at nine," and turned towards the door.
"By the way," Bullard called over his shoulder, "you had better come prepared for a night journey. And, I say! as you go out now try to look as if you had been damned badly treated. Further, before you come back, do what you can to alter that face of yours."
The door closed; Bullard's expression relaxed. For the first time in his life he had been within an ace of admitting—to himself—defeat. But all was not lost, even if he accepted Marvel's story, which he was very far from doing, his intelligence revolting no less at the bare idea of Alan Craig's existence than at that of the young man's supporting it as a quay labourer. Furthermore, were it proved to him that Alan had actually come from the Arctic, he would still not despair. He would have to act at high speed, but he was used to crises. As to Mr. Marvel, well, that clever person was going to be made useful to begin with; afterwards….
Bullard broke away from the clutches of thought to attend to the more urgent letters. He had just finished when his colleague came in.
"Hullo, Lancaster," he cried cheerfully, "I fancied your doctor had commanded rest. Glad to see you all the same. As a matter of fact, I was coming to look you up shortly."
"Couldn't rest at home," returned Lancaster, seating himself at the fire. "I say, Bullard," he said abruptly, "you'll be good to my girl—won't you?"
Bullard's eyebrows went up, but his voice was kindly. "Do you doubt it,
Lancaster?"