"Then I say, curse you, I'll have the law on it."
"Now look here, Marsden," and Mr. Collins's voice changed once more—to an uncompromisingly ugly tone. "If you want the law, we'll give you your bellyful of the law."
"A good deal more than you'll like," said Bence, failing to ask for moderation of language.
"Your wife," Collins went on, "dropped a plain hint just now; and I was very pleased to hear it, because I thought you'd understand. But I see I must amplify it for you. Mrs. Marsden has been good enough to entrust to my care all her private papers—that is, papers she has kept private to oblige you."
"I—I don't in the least follow—what you're driving at."
"Oh, you know what I'm talking about. Specimens of your handwriting, and so on—papers that the law would call incriminating documents,—papers that the law would call conclusive evidence,—papers that the law would call forgeries."
"Prentice! Don't believe him."
"Never mind Mr. Prentice. Attend to me.... Ah-ha,—you're beginning to look rather foolish.... Now, how much law do you want?"
"I think," said Bence, "if he has time to get safely out of the country, that's all the law he ought to ask for."
Marsden was cowed and beaten. He sat heavily and limply on his chair, sprawling one red hand across the table, and nervously fingering his lips with the other hand.