“No. Because I have a duty to perform towards a friend, and even the temptation of a fortune shall not cause me to neglect it.”
“A friend. Whom?”
“The matter is my own affair. It has nothing to do with our business,” was Max’s rather sharp response.
“Very well,” said the other, quite unruffled. “I can only regret. I will wire to-night to Muhil Pasha, and endeavour to obtain a postponement of the agreement.”
“As you wish,” Max said, still angered at this importation of the woman he loved into the discussion. “I may as well say that it is quite immaterial.”
“To you it may be so. But I am not rich like yourself,” the other said. “I have to obtain my income where I can by honest means, and this is a chance which I do not intend to lose. I look to you—I hold you to your promise, Barclay—to assist me.”
“I do not intend to break my promise. I merely say that I cannot go out to Turkey at once.”
“But you will come—you will promise that in a few days—in a week—or when you have finished this mysterious duty to your friend, that you will come with me?” he urged. “Come, give me your hand. I don’t want to approach anybody else.”
“Well, if you really wish it,” Max replied, and he gave the tempter his hand in pledge.
When, a few seconds later, Jean Adam turned to light a fresh cigarette there was upon his thin lips a smile—a sinister smile of triumph.