"Destroyed!" cried Jacob.
"Make yourself easy about it," said Michael Sunlocks. "It will do no more mischief. It's burnt. I burnt it myself."
"Burnt it?" Jacob exclaimed. "Why, do you know, I set great store by that letter? I wouldn't have lost it for a matter of five hundred pounds."
Michael Sunlocks could bear no more. In an instant the weary look had gone from his face. His eyes flashed with anger; he straightened himself up, and brought his fist down on the table. "Come," he cried, "let us have done with this fencing. You want me to pay you five hundred pounds. Is that it?"
"For the letter—that's it," said Jacob.
"And if I refuse to do so you mean to publish it abroad that I have married a wicked woman?"
"Aw, when did we say so?" said Jacob.
"No matter what you say. You want five hundred pounds?"
"For the letter."
"Answer. You want five hundred pounds?"