“You’re a cool customer, Master Burchill!” he said. “By Jove, you are! You’re playing some game. What is it?”
Burchill smiled deprecatingly.
“What’s your own?” he asked. “Or, if that’s too pointed a question at present, suppose we go back to—my letter? Want to ask me anything about it?”
Barthorpe again drew the letter from the case. He affected to re-read it, while Burchill narrowly watched him.
“What,” asked Barthorpe at last, “what was it that you wanted my uncle to oblige you with? A loan?”
“If it’s necessary to call it anything,” replied Burchill suavely, “you can call it a—well, say a donation. That sounds better—it’s more dignified.”
“I don’t suppose it matters much what it’s called,” said Barthorpe drily. “I should say, from the tone of your letter, that most people would call it——”
“Yes, but not polite people,” interrupted Burchill, “and you and I are—or must be—polite. So we’ll say donation. The fact is, I want to start a newspaper—weekly—devoted to the arts. I thought your uncle—now, unfortunately, deceased—would finance it. I didn’t want much, you know.”
“How much?” asked Barthorpe. “The amount isn’t stated in this letter.”
“It was stated in the two previous letters,” replied Burchill. “Oh, not much. Ten thousand.”