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“You shall have the money,” said he, “but see here, let’s make an end of this. Now let’s see. How much have you had already?”

“Only eight,” said Voles. “You know that well enough, why ask?”

“Eight thousand,” murmured the other, “you have had eight thousand pounds out of me, and the two to-night will make ten. Seems a good price for a few papers.” He made the shot on spec. It was a bull’s eye.

“Oh, those papers are worth a good deal more than that,” said Voles, “a good deal more than that.”

So it was documents not actions that the blackmailer held in suspense over the head of Rochester. It really did not matter a button to Jones, he stood ready to face murder itself, armed as he was with Rochester’s letter in his pocket, and the surety of being able to identity himself.

“Well,” said he, “let’s finish this business. Have you a cheque book on you?”

“I have a cheque book right enough—what’s your game now?”

“Just an idea of mine before I pay you—bring out your cheque book, you’ll see what I mean in a minute.”