"You are to marry this officer here to a young lady."
"What—what young lady?"
"Mortimer's daughter—Claire is the name, isn't it, Grant? Yes, Claire; you know her, I reckon."
I could hear the unfortunate man breathe in the silence, but Fagin's eyes threatened.
"Is—is she here?" he faltered helplessly. "Does she desire the—the ceremony?"
"That doesn't happen to be any of your business," broke in Fagin bluntly. "This is my affair, an' the fewer questions you ask the better. If we want some fun, what the hell have you got to do with it, you snivelling spoil-sport! I haven't asked either of them about it. I just decided it was time they got married. Stand up, man, and let go that door," he drew a derringer from his belt and flung it onto the table. "There's my authority—that, an' fifty hell-hounds outside wondering why I don't loot the house, an' be done. Do you want to be turned over to them? If you don't, then speak up. Will you tie them, or not?"
Jenk's eyes wandered toward Jones, who stared blankly back at him, yellow fangs showing beneath his beard.
"Why—of course—yes," he faltered weakly. "I—suppose I must."
"Don't seem much chance to get out, does there, parson? Well, I reckon it won't hurt your conscience particularly. Bill! Where's Bill?"
"You sent him to guard the front door," explained Jones.