Part 12 (1/2)

And Burchill spoke, soothingly and quietly.

”Don't,” he said. ”It does no good, you know. Serious--yes. Most serious--for you, as I said. But remember--only serious for you if the will is--good. Eh?”

Barthorpe jumped to his feet and thrust his hands in his pockets. He began to pace the room.

”Hang me if I know what you mean, Burchill!” he said. ”Is that your signature on that will or not?”

”How can I say until I see it?” asked Burchill, with seeming innocence.

”Let's postpone matters until then. By the by, did Mr. Tertius say that it was my signature?”

”What do you mean!” exclaimed Barthorpe. ”Why, of course, he said that he and you witnessed the will!”

”Ah, to be sure, he would say so,” a.s.sented Burchill. ”Of course.

Foolish of me to ask. It's quite evident that we must postpone matters until this will is--what do you call it?--presented, propounded--what is it?--for probate. Let's turn to something else. My letter to your uncle, for instance. Of course, as you've got it, you've read it.”

Barthorpe sat down again and stared.

”You're a cool customer, Master Burchill!” he said. ”By Jove, you are!

You're playing some game. What is it?”

Burchill smiled deprecatingly.

”What's your own?” he asked. ”Or, if that's too pointed a question at present, suppose we go back to--my letter? Want to ask me anything about it?”

Barthorpe again drew the letter from the case. He affected to re-read it, while Burchill narrowly watched him.

”What,” asked Barthorpe at last, ”what was it that you wanted my uncle to oblige you with? A loan?”

”If it's necessary to call it anything,” replied Burchill suavely, ”you can call it a--well, say a donation. That sounds better--it's more dignified.”

”I don't suppose it matters much what it's called,” said Barthorpe drily. ”I should say, from the tone of your letter, that most people would call it----”

”Yes, but not polite people,” interrupted Burchill, ”and you and I are--or must be--polite. So we'll say donation. The fact is, I want to start a newspaper--weekly--devoted to the arts. I thought your uncle--now, unfortunately, deceased--would finance it. I didn't want much, you know.”

”How much?” asked Barthorpe. ”The amount isn't stated in this letter.”

”It was stated in the two previous letters,” replied Burchill. ”Oh, not much. Ten thousand.”

”The price of your silence, eh?” suggested Barthorpe.

”Dirt cheap!” answered Burchill.

Barthorpe folded up the letter once more and put it away. He helped himself to another cigarette and lighted it before he spoke again. Then he leaned forward confidentially.

”What is the secret?” he asked.

Burchill stated and a.s.sumed an air of virtuous surprise.

”My dear fellow!” he said. ”That's against all the rules--all the rules of----”

”Of shady society,” sneered Barthorpe. ”Confound it, man, what do you beat about the bush so much for? Hang it, I've a pretty good notion of you, and I daresay you've your own of me. Why can't you tell me?”