“What I wanted to say,” he resumed, “was this. We’re both doing pretty well now on the square. You must be positively piling up the shekels and I can earn a decent living, which is all I want. Why shouldn’t we drop this flash note business?”
Purcell kept his blue eye fixed on the horizon and appeared to ignore the question; but after an interval, and without moving a muscle he said gruffly: “Go on,” and Varney continued:
“The lay isn’t what it was, you know. At first it was all plain sailing. The notes were first-class copies and not a soul suspected anything until they were presented at the bank. Then the murder was out; and the next little trip that I made was a very different affair. Two or three of the notes were suspected quite soon after I had changed them, and I had to be precious fly, I can tell you, to avoid complications. And now that the second batch has come into the Bank, the planting of fresh specimens is going to be no sinecure. There isn’t a money-changer on the continent of Europe that isn’t keeping his weather eyeball peeled, to say nothing of the detectives that the Bank people have sent abroad.”
He paused and looked appealingly at his companion. But Purcell, still minding his helm, only growled, “Well?”
“Well, I want to chuck it, Dan. When you’ve had a run of luck and pocketed your winnings is the time to stop play.”
“You’ve come into some money then, I take it,” said Purcell.
“No, I haven’t. But I can make a living now by safe and respectable means, and I’m sick of all this scheming and dodging with the gaol everlastingly under my lee.”
“The reason I asked,” said Purcell, “is that there is a trifle outstanding. You hadn’t forgotten that, I suppose?”
“No, I hadn’t forgotten it, but I thought that perhaps you might be willing to let me down a bit easily.”
The other man pursed up his thick lips, but continued to gaze stonily over the bow.