‘I will not.’
He was silent. He looked at me. The pupils of his eyes dilated,—until they seemed all pupil.
‘You will.—Do you hear?—I say you will.’
‘I am not a thief, I am an honest man,—why should I do this thing?’
‘Because I bid you.’
‘Have mercy!’
‘On whom—on you, or on Paul Lessingham?—Who, at any time, has shown mercy unto me, that I should show mercy unto any?’
He stopped, and then again went on,—reiterating his former incredible suggestion with an emphasis which seemed to eat its way into my brain.
‘You will practise the arts of a thief to steal into his house; and, being in, will listen. If all be still, you will make your way to the room he calls his study.’
‘How shall I find it? I know nothing of his house.’