"The text upon which the lot fell was the 12th verse of the 9th chapter in the Book of Proverbs, 'If thou be wise, thou shalt be wise for thyself,'" he said solemnly; "whereby I perceive that I shall not be justified in parting with that which you seek without fitting recompense. I ask you, therefore, young man, what are you prepared to give?"
The Rev. Jonah's tone could scarcely have been more lofty, or his manner more patronising, if he had been Saul and I the humble David; but a man who is trying to earn three thousand pounds must put up with a great deal. Finding that the minister was prepared to play the huckster, I employed no further ceremony.
"The price must of course depend on the quality of the article you have to sell," I said; "I must know that before I can propose terms."
"Suppose my information took the form of letters?"
"Letters from whom—to whom?"
"From Mrs. Rebecca Haygarth to my great-uncle, Samson Goodge."
"How many of such letters have you to sell?"
I put it very plainly; but the Rev. Jonah's susceptibilities were not of the keenest order. He did not wince.
"Say forty odd letters."
I pricked up my ears; and it needed all my diplomacy to enable me to conceal my sense of triumph. Forty odd letters! There must be an enormous amount of information in forty odd letters; unless the woman wrote the direst twaddle ever penned by a feminine correspondent.