“Certainly.”
“Yes,” said the baron; “and to avoid tedious arithmetic, and for the sake of convenience, I will agree to visit London, at what time you appoint, to bring with me these two masks, and to give my evidence against Yelland Mace, otherwise Walter Longcluse, my stay in London not to exceed a fortnight, for ten thousand pounds sterling.”
“I don't think, Baron, you can be serious,” said Mr. Arden, as soon as he had recovered breath.
“Donner-wetter! I will show you that I am!” bawled the baron. “Now or never, Sir. Do as you please. I sha'n't abate a franc. Do you like my offer?”
On the event of this bargain are depending issues of which David Arden knows nothing; the dangers, the agonies, the salvation of those who are nearest to him on earth. The villain Longcluse, and the whole fabric of his machinations, may be dashed in pieces by a word.
How, then, did David Arden, who hated a swindle, answer the old extortioner, who asked him, “Do you like my offer?”
“Certainly not, Sir,” said David Arden, sternly.
“Then was scheert's mich! What do I care! No more, no more about it!” yelled the baron in a fury, and dashed the two masks to pieces on the hearth-stone at his feet, and stamped the fragments into dust with his clumsy shoes.
With a cry, old Uncle David rushed forward to arrest the demolition, but too late. The baron, who was liable to such accesses of rage, was grinding his teeth, and rolling his eyes, and stamping in fury.
The masks, those priceless records, were gone, past all hope of restoration. Uncle David felt for a moment so transported with anger, that I think he was on the point of striking him. How it would have fared with him, if he had, I can't tell.