the catching pin, 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 am damned," 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."
