in, and Maskew sighed out 200, before the pin pattered on the
bottom of the brass candlestick.

The clerk forgot his master's presence and shut his notebook with a bang,
'Congratulate you, sir,' says he, quite pert to Maskew; 'you are the
landlord of the poorest pothouse in the Duchy at 200 a year.'

The bailiff paid no heed to what his man did, but took his periwig
off and wiped his head. 'Well, I'm hanged,' he said; and so the Why
Not? was lost.

Just as the last bid was given, Elzevir half-rose from his chair, and
for a moment I expected to see him spring like a wild beast on Maskew;
but he said nothing, and sat down again with the same stolid look on his
face. And, indeed, it was perhaps well that he thus thought better of
it, for Maskew stuck his hand into his bosom as the other rose; and
though he withdrew it again when Elzevir got back to his chair, yet the
front of his waistcoat was a little bulged, and, looking sideways, I saw
the silver-shod butt of a pistol nestling far down against his white
shirt. The bailiff was vexed, I think, that he had been betrayed into
such strong words; for he tried at once to put on as indifferent an air
as might be, saying in dry tones, 'Well, gentlemen, there seems to be
here some personal matter into which I shall not attempt to spy. Two
hundred pounds more or less is but a flea-bite to the Duchy; and if you,
sir,' turning to Maskew, 'wish later on to change your mind, and be quit
of the bargain, I shall not be the man to stand in your way. In any
case, I imagine 'twill be time enough to seal the lease if I send it
from London.'

I knew he said this, and hinted at delay as wishing to do Elzevir a good
turn; for his clerk had the lease already made out pat, and it only
wanted the name and rent filled in to be sealed and signed. But, 'No,'
says Maskew, 'business is business, Mr. Bailiff, and the post uncertain
to parts so distant from the capital as these; so I'll thank you to make
out the lease to me now, and on May Day place me in possession.'

'So be it then,' said the bailiff a little testily, 'but blame me not for
driving hard bargains; for the Duchy, whose servant I am,' and he raised
his hat, 'is no daughter of the horse-leech. Fill in the figures, Mr.
Scrutton, and let us away.'

So Mr. Scrutton, for that was Mr. Clerk's name, scratches a bit with his
quill on the parchment sheet to fill in the money, and then Maskew
scratches his name, and Mr. Bailiff scratches his