“Damn you! How much do you want?”
“Nothing!”
“Name your price and give me that note.”
“It is priceless.”
“Good heavens, man!––you need money. You’re a pauper. I can make you comfortable. I can get you a position that will make you secure for life.”
Phil slowly picked up his own money that he had thrown on the desk and put it in his trouser pocket.
“Much obliged!” he remarked, “but I have no intention of remaining a pauper for long. I wouldn’t insult my conscience by taking any position you could find for me. Do you mind letting me out?”
For answer, Brenchfield was on him like a wild-cat. Phil wriggled, but the Mayor got behind him, with an arm pressing his throat and a hand over his mouth. With a quick movement and without the slightest noise he bore Phil backward full length on the thickly carpeted floor. He moved his grip and, half strangling him with one hand as he knelt heavily on Phil’s chest, he went through Phil’s inside pocket.
The pocket was empty.