“Why?” demanded Squire Moulton, sharply.
“Well”—continuing to use what seemed to be a favorite word with him—“well, I’ve gained some pretty valuable information to-day, you know, and if I can’t make a trade with you, why, I shall be under the necessity of doing so with some one else!”
“Oh! you threaten me, do you?”
“Not at all, squire—not at all; only a feller must get a living some way or other.”
“What do you do generally for a living?”
“Well, most anything that turns up; sometimes this and sometimes that.”
Squire Moulton was in despair. He could get nothing whatever out of the man. He was too much for even his sharp villainy to fathom, and no cross-questioning could catch him. He did not like his appearance at all. Sometimes he spoke like a gentleman, and sometimes like a rough, ignorant fellow. He was a puzzle, which it was beyond his power and wit to solve. It would have pleased him better had there been more of the decided rascal about him. But the man had evidently listened to the whole of the conversation he had had with his sister, and he was in his power. All his dearest secrets were now in the possession of this cool, insolent man who called himself Ronald Edgerton; and he cursed himself again and again for having allowed himself to breathe them in the open air. But it was of no use now, to waste time in vain repinings, and he resolved to do the best he could by making an ally of the man.
“I’ll tell you what I will do, Edgerton,” he said, at length, assuming a friendly air, at the same time drawing forth his purse. “I will hire you to do such little odd jobs as these, if you like, and pay you well for them, too. You shall have the fifty dollars now, and the remainder when you bring me the pictures, then I shall have something else on the docket, I have no doubt.”
“That’s it; now you talk to the point! Thank’ee, sir,” he said, as he took the money.
“You will not fail me now—I may depend upon you?”