“What do you mean?” Traherne demanded.
“W’y,” Watkins replied, “if the Guv-nor suspected as you’d got a word through to India, ten to one he’d wipe you off the slate like that”—he snapped his loose fingers impertinently near Dr. Traherne’s face—“like that without waiting for to-morrow.”
“That makes no difference,” Major Crespin said firmly. “We’ve got to face it.”
“Come now!” Traherne argued. “On your own showing, Mr. Watkins, loyalty to your master oughtn’t to stand in your way. I don’t suppose gratitude is one of your weaknesses.”
“Gratitude! To ’im?” the man cried hotly. “What for? I’m not badly off here, to be sure, but it’s nothing to wot I does for ’im; and I ’ate ’im for ’is funny little ways. D’you think I don’t see that he’s always pulling my leg?” There was something human in Watkins, after all—and something English left in him too.
“Well, then,” Traherne said quickly, “you won’t mind selling him. We’ve only to settle the price.”
“That’s all very fine, sir,” the valet said with an unpleasant grin, “but what price ’ave you gents to offer?”
“Nothing down,” Traherne admitted, “no spot cash—that’s clear. You’ll have to take our word for whatever bargain we come to.”
“Your word!” Watkins flouted him. “How do I know—?”
“Oh, our written word,” Traherne said, quite unruffled. “We’ll give it to you in writing.”