"Indeed—indeed but I will, Mr. Blarden, if I can," rejoined Chancey; "and I think I can—I think I know a way, so I do, to get a halter round his neck—do you mind?—and leave the rope's end in your hand, to hang him or not, as you like."
"To hang him!" echoed Blarden, like one who hears something too good to be true.
"Yes, to hang him by the neck till he's dead—dead—dead," repeated Chancey, imperturbably.
"How the blazes will you do it?" demanded the wretch, anxiously. "Pish, it's all prate and vapour."
Gordon Chancey stole a suspicious glance round the room from the corner of his eye, and then suffering his gaze to rest sleepily upon the fire once more, he stretched out one of his lank arms, and after a little uncertain groping, succeeding in grasping the collar of his companion's coat, and drawing his head down toward him. Blarden knew Mr. Chancey's way, and without a word, lowered his ear to that gentleman's mouth, who forthwith whispered something into it which produced a marked effect upon Mr. Blarden.
"If you do that," replied he with ferocious exultation, "by ——, I'll make your fortune for you at a slap."
And so saving, he struck his hand with heavy emphasis upon the barrister's shoulder, like a man who clenches a bargain.
"Well, Mr. Blarden," replied Chancey, in the same drowsy tone, "as I said before, I declare it's my opinion I can, so it is—I think I can."
"And so do I think you can—by ——, I'm sure of it," exclaimed Blarden triumphantly; "but take some more—more wine, won't you? take some more, and stay a bit, can't you?"
Chancey had made his way to the door with his usual drowsy gait; and, passing out without deigning any answer or word of farewell, stumbled lazily downstairs. There was nothing odd, however, in this leave-taking; it was Chancey's way.