"Do I know where my own mother lives!" exclaimed the lessee. "I should think I do! He's a neighbour of mine—lives close by me, up Primrose Hill way. Nice little bachelor establishment he has—Oakfield Villa. Spent many an evening there with him—Sunday evenings, of course. Oh, yes—I know all about him—as Godwin Markham. Bless me!—so he's a country banker, is he? And mixed up in this affair, eh? Gosh!—I hope you'll find out that he murdered his manager, and that you'll be able to hang him—I'd treat the town to a free show if you could hang him in public on my stage, I would, indeed!"
"You were going to tell us something, sir?" suggested Easleby. "Something that you thought might help us."
"I hope it will help you—and me, too!" responded Castlemayne, who was obviously incensed and truculent. "'Pon my honour, when I got your cards, I wondered if I'd been sleep-walking last night, and had gone and done for this man—I really did! It was all I could do to keep from punching his nose last night in the open street, and I left him feeling very bad indeed! It's this way—I dare say you know that men like me, in this business, want a bit of financing when we start. All right!—we do, like most other people. Now, when I thought of taking up the lease of this spot, a few years ago, I wanted money. I knew this man Markham as a neighbour, and I mentioned the matter to him, not knowing then he was the Markham of Conduit Street. He let me know who he was, then, and he offered to do things privately—no need to go to his office, do you see? And—he found me in necessary capital. And I dare say I signed papers without thoroughly understanding 'em. And, of course, when you get into the hands of a fellow like that, it's like putting your foot on a piece of butter in the street—you're down before you know what's happened! But I ain't down yet, my boys!" concluded Mr. Castlemayne, drinking off the contents of his glass, and replenishing it. "And damme if I'm going to be, without a bit of a fight for it, that I ain't!"
"Putting some pressure on you, I suppose, sir?" suggested Easleby, who knew that their host would tell anything and everything if left to himself. "Wants his pound of flesh, no doubt?"
This Shakespearean allusion appeared to be lost on the lessee, but he evidently understood what pressure meant.
"Pressure!" he exclaimed. "Yah!—there's nothing would suit that fellow better than to have one of his victims under one of those steam-hammers that they have nowadays, and to bring it down on him till he'd crushed the last drop of blood out of his toes! Pressure!—I'll tell you! This place didn't do well at first—everybody in town, in our line, anyway, knows that—but even in these days I paid him his interest regular—down on the nail, mind, as prompt as the date came round. But now—things are different. I'm doing well—in a bit I could pay my gentleman off—though not just yet. But there's big money ahead—this house has caught on, got a reputation, become popular. And now what d'ye think my lord wants—what he's screwing me for? Turns out that in one of those confounded papers I signed there's a clause, that if I didn't repay him by a certain date I should surrender my lease to him! I no doubt signed it, not quite understanding—but damme if he didn't keep it dark till the date was expired! And now, when I've worked things up, not only as lessee, mind you, but as manager—to success and big prospects, hanged if he doesn't want to collar my lease with all its fine possibilities, and put me into work for him at a blooming salary!"
"Dear me, sir!" exclaimed Easleby. "Now—what might that exactly mean? We're not up in these matters, you know."
"Mean?" vociferated the lessee. "It 'ud mean this. I've paid that man as much in interest as the original loan was. He now wants my lease, all my interest, all my chances of reward—this lease is worth many a thousand a year now! If I surrender my lease peaceably—without fuss, you understand—he'll wipe off my original debt to him and give me a blooming salary of twenty-five quid a week—me! Gosh!—he ought to be burnt alive!"
"And if you don't?" asked Starmidge, deeply interested by this sidelight on financial dealings. "What then?"
"Then he relies on his damn paper and my signature to it, and turns me out!" replied the aggrieved one. "Thievery!—that's what I call it. That's his blooming ultimatum—came in last night to tell me. I hope you'll catch him and hang him!"