“Oh, come off it!” cried Brentin, laughing.
“Otherwise,” continued Bailey Thompson, with great gravity, “I must ask you, Mr. Blacker, and Mr. Forsyth here, to follow me to the cab in waiting at the door, and return with us to London as our prisoners.”
“In short, sir,” said Brentin, swelling with indignant importance, “you invite us, eccentric gentlemen of recognized position, to compound a felony!”
Thompson shrugged his shoulders, and Mossieu Cochefort looked puzzled.
“Be ashamed of yourself, sir!” Brentin cried, his voice ringing scornfully through the empty room. “Be ashamed of yourselves, you and Mossieu Cochefort, and give over talking through your hat! Mr. Crage, if you will write out a formal receipt we will look upon the affair as settled. The formal transfer can be effected later.”
“Aye, aye!” mumbled Crage, and, with his eyes on the money, began fumbling in the inside pocket of his rusty black coat for the receipt.
“Gentlemen!” cried Thompson, with affected earnestness, “I warn you! I very solemnly warn you—”
“Oh, come off it, Mr. Bailey Thompson, sir!” was Brentin’s emphatic and withering reply; “come off it, and shut your head. We have long had enough of you and your gas. For my part, my earnest advice to you and Mossieu Cochefort is that you kiss yourselves good-bye and go your several ways. And tell your amazing Casino Company from us that the only undertaking we will give them is not to come and do it again in the fall. To repeat a success is always dangerous; and next time, no doubt, you will all be better prepared.—Now, Mr. Crage, the receipt!”
“Qu’est ce qu’il a dit?” asked the puzzled Frenchman, as Thompson, fuming and fretting, dragged him off to the window to explain.
Meantime old Crage had produced his receipt, already written and signed, and, handing it over, with trembling, eager fingers was beginning to count the notes.