Victor took the drink without a word of thanks and gulped it down noisily. Lanyard drank sparingly, then crossed the room to a bell-push. Seeing his finger on it Prince Victor started from his chair, but Lanyard hospitably waved him back.
“Don’t go yet,” he pleaded. “You’ve only just dropped in, we haven’t had half a chance to chat. Besides, you mustn’t forget I’ve got your pistol and your dirk and the upper hand and a sustaining sense of moral superiority and no end of other advantages over you.”
“Why,” the prince demanded, nervously—“why did you ring?”
“To call a cab for you, of course. I don’t imagine you want to walk home—do you?—in your present state of shocking disrepair. Of course, if you’d rather ... But do sit down: compose yourself.”
“Let me be,” the other snapped as Lanyard offered good-naturedly to thrust him back into the chair. “I am—quite composed.”
“That’s good! Excellent! Hand steady enough to write me a cheque, do you think?”
“What the devil!”
“Oh, come now! Don’t go off your bat so easily. I’m only going to do you a service—”
“Damn your impudence! I want no services of you!”
“Oh, yes you do!” Lanyard insisted, unabashed—“or you will when you learn what a kind heart I’ve got. Now do be nice and stop protesting! You see, you’ve touched my heart. I’d no idea you were so passionate about that painting. If I had for one instant imagined you cared enough about it to burglarize my rooms ... But now that I do understand, my dear fellow, I wouldn’t deny you for worlds; I make you a free present of it, at the price I paid—twenty thousand and one hundred guineas—exacting no bonus or commission whatever. You’ll find blank cheques in the upper right-hand drawer of my desk there; fill in one to my order, and the Corot’s yours.”