"Do it! D'ye think that a man who's worn Her Majesty's scarlet jacket
for twinty years would dirty his hands with such a trick? I tell ye, I
wouldn't do it for all the money that iver was coined. Look here,
Girdlestone, I know you, but, by the Lord, you don't know me!"

The young merchant sat silently in his chair, with the same livid colour
upon his face and savage expression in his eyes. Major Tobias
Clutterbuck stood at the end of the table, stooping forward so as to
lean his hands upon it, with his eyes protuberant and his scanty grey
fringe in a bristle with indignation.

"What right had you to come to me with such a proposal? I don't set up
for being a saint, Lord knows, but, be George! I've some morals, such as
they are, and I mean to stick to them. One of me rules of life has been
niver to know a blackgaird, and so, me young friend, from this day forth
you and I go on our own roads. Ged! I'm not particular, but 'you must
draw the line somewhere,' as me frind, Charlie Monteith, of the Indian
Horse, used to say I when he cut his father-in-law. I draw it at you."

While the major was solemnly delivering himself of these sentiments,
Ezra continued to sit watching him in a particularly venomous manner.
His straight, cruel lips were blanched with passion, and the veins stood
out upon his forehead. The young man was a famous amateur bruiser, and
could fight a round with any professional in London. The old soldier
would be a child in his hands. As the latter picked up his hat
preparatory to leaving the room, Ezra rose and bolted the door upon the
inside. "It's worth five pounds in a police court," he muttered to
himself, and knotting up his great hands, which glittered with rings, he
approached his companion with his head sunk upon his breast, his eyes
flashing from under his dark brows, and the slow, stealthy step of a
beast of prey. There was a characteristic refinement of cruelty about
his attack, as though he wished to gloat over the helplessness of his
victim, and give him time to realize his position before he set upon
him.

If such were his intention he failed signally in producing the desired
effect. The instant the major perceived his manoeuvre he pulled himself
up to his full height, as he might have done on parade, and slipping his
hand beneath the tails of his frock-coat, produced a small glittering
implement, which he levelled straight at the young merchant's head.

"A revolver!" Ezra