Crage sat bolt upright, with his hand curved over his ear.
“For the entire property?” he asked.
“For the entire property. Is it a deal? Thirty thousand pounds, neither less nor more.” And he emptied the grip and shook it, to show that not a penny more remained.
“It’s worth more in the open market,” said Crage, cautiously.
“Then take it to the open market. We have no time to haggle. My client is on his way to be married. Good-day.” And with that he began to scrape the notes and gold together again.
“Hold hard!” cried Crage. “Don’t hurry an old man.”
“We’ll give the old man three minutes,” said Brentin, coolly pulling out his watch.
We were all three of us grouped round the table, watching Crage, with our backs to the door. The woman stood at his elbow, and we could, in the complete silence, hear the heavy, swinging tick-tick of Brentin’s large old-fashioned watch.
“Half time!” cried Brentin, when suddenly we heard steps outside in the hall. I had just time to recognize Bailey Thompson’s even, divisional tread, when he pushed the door open and stepped in. He was dressed as usual, and behind him came a gentleman in a tight black frock-coat, an evident Frenchman, thin, dark, and wiry, with a withered face, like a preserved Bordeaux plum.
“One moment, if—you—please, gentlemen!” cried Bailey Thompson, as he stepped up to the table.