“You have stood by that man, and not by me,” Stackhouse said hoarsely. “So that I meant to toss this in the sea at the last—this and all the papers——”
He lifted the bank-notes and showed him the collection of separately-banded documents.
“I am a rich man, and I have no heir. I had thought of you, but you turned away from me and did not continue to listen. You went to him of the breachings—but you have now what is needful for me and I will bay. I have no heir. I said that before. I dell you now. A dying man does not lie. There are papers to make you rich, for I have other fortunes. Look, I will toss it into the sea—if you do not give me that bottle——”
Bellair laughed at him.
“These are thousand dollar notes—there are fifty of them——”
Bellair turned aside for an instant. Money and papers of more money—these were very far from fanning excitement in his breast. A loaf and a jug of fresh water were real; the moon’s higher appearance each night, and the majestic plan of the night-suns, these were real. Fleury, the woman and the babe, lost in the brimming darkness of earth’s ocean—they were real. Like the stars they had to do with the mighty Conceiver of it all. They were a part of the Conception—and so they were real—but the dollars of men....
“And do you know what I will do—after I have tossed this into the sea?”
The question brought him back quickly.
“No, Stackhouse,” he answered.
“I will come for you and dake that bottle. I am big. I have strength. I will dake it—or you will kill me—and that will be the end——”