“As a matter of common justice between us, I ask you to destroy any written evidence you may have prepared according to the accursed and unjust suggestions of Gray against me; or that in the event of your death, I may, having faithfully fulfilled my bond with you, be then released. Stay, I know what you would say. That, you would tell me, holds out a temptation to me to take your life. I say it does not, Andrew Britton, in your case. Your avarice is not so insatiable as Jacob Gray’s; and, moreover, we never meet but as man to man, and you can take what precautions you please to ensure your own safety.”
“No, squire,” said Britton, “it’s worth all the money, I’m d—d if it ain’t to see you in such a fright. You think I’m drinking myself to death, I know you do, and so I am, but it’s an infernally slow process, and if you come to that, you look half dead yourself.”
“I—I?”
“Yes! Mind you give me none of your nonsense, you know, in case you should pop off all of a sudden.”
“I—I am very well,” said Learmont, “strong and well; I never was better.”
He dropped into a chair, as he spoke, and a deadly paleness came over his face, robbing it even of its usual sallowness, and giving instead a chalky appearance to the skin, that was fearful to behold.
“There, you see,” said Britton, “you ain’t well now—you don’t drink enough. Here you have been making a riot about me, and the chance of my popping off, and you have hardly an ounce of flesh on your cursed long carcase.”
“I am better now!” cried Learmont, “I am quite well—very well indeed. You—you have known me long, Andrew Britton—tell me I never looked better in my life, and I will give you a hundred pounds—yes, a hundred pounds, good Britton.”
“Can’t be such a cursed hypocrite,” said Britten, who mightily enjoyed Learmont’s fright, “I never saw you look so bad in all my life!”
“I am sure you are joking.”