Schofield looked into his face and did not venture to disobey. The iron resolution, the forceful, earnest, the remorseless determination there were not to be trifled with. Schofield put down the bag as desired.
'The key.'
Sulkily, the fellow drew it from his trousers-pocket and flung it on the ground.
'Pick it up.'
Schofield hesitated. He would not stoop. He dreaded a blow on the head; on the back of the head, which would fell him if he stooped, such a blow as he would himself deal the man before him if he had a stick in his hand, and could induce him to bend at his feet.
As he hesitated, and a spark appeared in the eye of Philip, Salome stooped, rose, and handed the key to her husband.
He did not thank her. He did not look at her. He kept his eye steadily on Schofield—scarcely glancing at the bag as he opened it, and then only rapidly and cursorily at its contents—never for more than a second allowing it to be off his opponent, never allowing him to move a muscle unobserved, never to frame a thought unread. But, for all the speed with which he glanced at the contents of the bag, he saw that it contained a great deal of money. It was stuffed with bank-notes, and the figures on these notes were high. Philip leisurely reclosed and relocked the bag, put the key in his pocket and passed the strap over his own head.
Then only did a slight, almost cruel smile, stir the corners of his lips as he saw the blankness of Schofield and the break-up of his assurance.
'Now, I suppose, I may go?' said the rogue.
'No,' answered Philip, 'I do nothing by half. I have my old scores against Schofield as well as the new scores—which are not my own—against Beaple Yeo.'