Then he heard the girl utter a little cry.
“Look!” she exclaimed eagerly. “Look! I will make you an offer. Free us from this horrible nightmare, give me your word that you will not persecute us further, and I will give you these.”
Westerham heard the rustle of draperies, and was conscious that the girl reached out her hands. The man took something from her. His head was bent over the object, whatever it might be, long and earnestly.
Then he heard a thick voice, with a distinctly Semitic lisp, say, “They are beautiful, very beautiful. But what are they to us? You think they are worth a hundred thousand pounds, eh? Suppose they are—what of that? Do you think a hundred thousand pounds can close our lips? Do you think a hundred thousand pounds can save your father? Bah!”
The man chuckled thickly.
“But they are very pretty baubles,” he went on, “and seeing you offer them to me, I see no reason why I should not keep them.”
“Ah!” cried the girl. “Then you will be silent?”
“Silent!” exclaimed the man, “Silent, for this much! Not us! Why, it's ridiculous.”
“Then give them back to me,” said the girl, quietly, with a quaver in her voice. “Give them back to me. Would you rob me?”
“I am not robbing you,” answered the man, sullenly. “I am taking what you offered me. I shall not give them back. It is impossible for you to make me. You would cry out, would you? What good would that do? Cry out, call a policeman—do what you like—what will it mean for you except exposure? What will it mean for your father except ruin? Give them back? Not I! I——”