Toft took the paper and read what was written on it, from the “In consideration of,” that began the sentence, to the firm signature “Audley of Beaudelays” that closed it. He did not speak.
“Come! You can’t want anything more than that!” my lord said. “You have only to write, read me the secret, and keep the paper until it is redeemed.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then take the pen. Of course the place must be precise. I am not going to pull down Beaudelays House to find a box of papers that I do not believe is there!”
Toft’s face was gray, the sweat stood on his lip. “I did not say,” he muttered, the paper rustling in his unsteady hand, “that they were in Beaudelays House.”
“No?” Audley replied. “Perhaps not. And for the matter of that, it is not a question of saying anything. It is a question of writing. You can write, I suppose?”
Toft did not speak. He could not speak. He had supposed that the power to put his lordship on the scent would be the same as pulling down the fox. When he had said that the papers were in the house, that they were behind a wall, that Mr. Audley knew where they were, he would have earned—he thought—his money!
But he had not known the man with whom he had to deal. And challenged to set down the place where the papers lay, he knew that he could not do it. In the house? Behind a wall? He saw now that that would not do. That would not satisfy the big smiling gentleman who sat opposite him, amused at the dilemma in which he found himself.
He knew that he was cornered, and he lost his countenance and his manners. He swore.
The young man laughed. “The biter bit,” he said. “Five hundred pounds you said, didn’t you? I wonder whether I ought to send for the constable? Or tell Mr. Audley? That would be wiser perhaps? What do you think you deserve, my man?”