“Would you mind reading me the numbers on the notes you hold?” asked Stranleigh, in cool, even tones, making no sign of producing his own assets.
“Not at all,” replied the other; whereupon he read them. The notes were evidently two of a series, and the numbers differed only by a single unit. Stranleigh nonchalantly took out his pocket-book, and the intruder’s eyes glistened as he observed its bulk. Stranleigh glanced at the number on the top bank-note, and replaced his pocket-book, leaning back in his easy chair.
“You are quite right,” he said. “Those are the notes I gave to Miss Trevelyan.”
“I asked why.”
“I told you why.”
“That cock-and-bull story won’t go down,” said the other. “Even the richest men do not fling money about in such reckless fashion. They do it only for a favour given or a favour expected.”
“I dare say you are right. But come to the point, as you said you would.”
“Is that necessary?”
“I don’t know that it is. You want money—as large an amount as can be squeezed from a man supposedly wealthy. You use your good-looking wife as a decoy——”
“You are casting aspersion on a lady quite unknown to you!” cried his visitor, with well-assumed indignation.