“Tell me, Manourie, are you paid as much as that to betray me?”
Manourie paled a little under his tan. He was a swarthy, sharp-featured fellow, slight and wiry. He looked into Sir Walter’s grimly smiling eyes, then again at the white diamond, from which the candlelight was striking every colour of the rainbow. He made a shrewd estimate of its price, and shook his black head. He had quite recovered from the shock of Sir Walter’s question.
“Not half as much,” he confessed, with impudence.
“Then you might find it more remunerative to serve me,” said the knight. “This jewel is to be earned.”
The agent’s eyes flickered; he passed his tongue over his lips. “As how?” quoth he.
“Briefly thus: I have but learnt of the trammel in which I am taken. I must have time to concert my measures of escape, and time is almost at an end. You are skilled in drugs, so my kinsman tells me. Can you so drug me as to deceive physicians that I am in extremis?”
Manourie considered awhile.
“I... I think I could,” he answered presently.
“And keep faith with me in this, at the price of, say.. two such stones?”
The venal knave gasped in amazement. This was not generosity; it was prodigality. He recovered again, and swore himself Sir Walter’s.