“The price of your silence, eh?” suggested Barthorpe.
“Dirt cheap!” answered Burchill.
Barthorpe folded up the letter once more and put it away. He helped himself to another cigarette and lighted it before he spoke again. Then he leaned forward confidentially.
“What is the secret?” he asked.
Burchill stated and assumed an air of virtuous surprise.
“My dear fellow!” he said. “That’s against all the rules—all the rules of——”
“Of shady society,” sneered Barthorpe. “Confound it, man, what do you beat about the bush so much for? Hang it, I’ve a pretty good notion of you, and I daresay you’ve your own of me. Why can’t you tell me?”
“You forget that I offered not to tell for—ten thousand pounds,” said Burchill. “Therefore I should want quite as much for telling. If you carry ten thousand in cash on you——”
“Is there a secret?” asked Barthorpe. “Sober earnest, now?”
“I have no objection to answering that question,” replied Burchill. “There is!”