“Money?” cried Marsh. “Damn it all, man, don’t you realize it is my wife? How much do you want?”
“Oh, Monsieur Marsh,” expostulated the Policeman, raising his palm, “you are well aware that I take nothing for myself. I do this out of friendship to you—and our gallant allies. But there is a prison janitor, I must give him 5,000, two warders 10,000, a go-between 2,000, odd expenses——”
“Stop!” put in Marsh, abruptly, “tell me how much it will cost.”
The Policeman’s face assumed a pained expression. “It may cost,” he said, “twenty-five, possibly thirty thousand roubles.”
“Thirty thousand. You shall have it. I gave you ten thousand, here are another ten thousand; you shall have the third ten thousand the day my wife leaves prison.”
The Policeman took the notes, and with a look of offended dignity, as though the handling of money were altogether beneath him, hid them in an inner pocket.
“When will you be able to report again?” asked Marsh.
“I expect the day after to-morrow. If you like to come to my house it is quite safe.”
“Very well, we will meet there. And now, if you are not in a hurry, I’ll see if I can raise some tea. It’s damned cold in this room.”
When Marsh had gone into the kitchen the little Policeman ventured to open conversation.