He wrote some figures on a piece of paper, and handed it to Douglas.
Douglas laughed drily, and returned it.
“You will hardly expect me to give my father the trouble of considering that.”
Herr Schwarz puffed and blowed. He got up, and walked about excitedly. He lit a cigarette, Falloden politely helping him. Miklos advanced again.
“I have, myself, made a very careful estimate—” he began, insinuatingly.
“No, no, Miklos,—go away!—go away!” repeated Schwarz impatiently, almost walking over him. Miklos retreated sulkily.
Schwarz took up the paper of figures, made an alteration, and handed it to Falloden.
“It is madness,” he said—“sheer madness. But I have in me something of the poet—the Crusader.”
Falloden’s look of slightly sarcastic amusement, as the little man breathlessly examined his countenance, threw the buyer into despair. Douglas put down the paper.
“We gave you the first chance, Herr Schwarz. As you know, nobody is yet aware of our intentions to sell. But I shall advise my father to-night to let one or two of the dealers know.”