It was unwisely said. Traherne signaled an “Easy-all” with his eyes and brows, Lucilla laid her hand on Crespin’s.
Watkins flung round on him viciously. “I advise you to keep a civil tongue in yer ’ead, Major,” he snarled roughly. “Don’t forget that I ’ave you in the ’ollow of my ’and.”
“True, Watkins,” Traherne said quickly, “and the hollow of your hand is a very disagreeable place to be in.” He said it flatteringly—and Watkins took it so, and grinned again. “That’s why we’re willing to pay well to get out of it. Come, now, what shall we say?”
“Well, what about a little first instalment?” the cockney insinuated oilily. “You ain’t quite on your uppers, are you, now? You could come down with something, be it ever so humble?”
Dr. Traherne pulled out his pocketbook instantly, and counted his notes. “I have three hundred rupees and five ten-pound notes,” he said, laying them on the table.
Watkins sniffed. Then he turned to Crespin.
“And you, Major?” he demanded, brusquely.
Crespin already had counted his store. This was no time to haggle. He indulged his right leg, and himself, in a slight kicking motion, and then went to the table, and tossed his money down with Traherne’s. “Two hundred and fifty rupees,” he said; “oh, and some loose change.”
“Oh, never mind the chicken-feed!” Watkins said grandly. “And the lady?” he turned and eyed her as he spoke.
“I gave my last rupee to your wife, Watkins,” Mrs. Crespin replied.