'll turn dog? Complete your part of the
bargain. Do you think I've put my head into a noose on your account for
_nothing_? D'you think I went out last night because I loved you? No,
sir, I want my money. I happen to need money. I've half a mind to make
it two-hundred-and-fifty; and I would, if I hadn't that honour which is
said to exist among thieves. We'll say one-hundred-and-fifty, and cry
quits."

"Do you think you have me in your hands?"

"I don't _think_," replied the cunning goldsmith. "I _know_ I've got
you. But I'll be magnanimous--I'll take L150. No, L160--I must pay the
boatmen--and then I'll say no more about the affair. It shall be buried
in the oblivion of my breast, it shall be forgotten with the sins of my
youth. I must ask you to be quick."

"Quick?"

"Yes, as quick as you conveniently can."

"Would you order me about, sir?"

"Not exactly that, but I would urge you on a little faster. I would
persuade you with the inevitable spur of fate."

The merchant put his hand on a bell which stood upon his table.

"That would be of no use," said Benjamin. "If you call fifty clerks and
forcibly rob me of my correspondence, you gain nothing. Listen! Every
clerk in this building would turn against you the moment he knew your
true character; and before morning, every man, woman and child in Timber
Town would know. And where would you be then? In gaol. D'you hear?--in
gaol. Take up your pen. An insignificant difference of a paltry hundred
pounds will solve the difficulty and give you all the comfort of a quiet
mind."

"But what guarantee have I that after you have been paid you won't
continue to blackmail me?"

"You cannot possibly have such a guarantee--it wouldn't be good for
you. This business is going to chasten your soul, and make you mend your
ways. It comes as a blessing in disguise. But so long as you don't refer
to the matter, after you have paid me what you owe me, I shall bury the
hatchet. I simply give you my word for that. If you don't care to take
it, leave it: it makes no difference to me."

The fat little merchant fiddled nervously with the writing materials in
front of him, and his hesitation seemed to have a most irritating effect
upon the goldsmith, who rose from his chair, took his watch from his
pocket, and walked to and fro.

"It's too much, too much," petulantly reiterated Mr. Crookenden. "It's
not worth it, not the half of it."

"That's not _my_ affair," retorted Tresco. "The ba