made a desperate dash.

'About those notes old Bommaney was supposed to have run away with. I
think--I think, mind you, that if there was any way of using them, I
could lay my hands upon them.'

'I remember,' said Steinberg, 'you said something of the kind last
night. I shouldn't advise you to touch 'em. It's a dangerous game.
They're very worthless, and the game isn't worth the candle.'

'Worthless?' echoed Barter. 'They're worth eight thousand pounds.'

'They're worth eight thousand pounds,' responded Steinberg, 'to the man
they belong to. They're not worth eight hundred to anybody else.'

Young Mr. Barter's whole soul seemed to rise in protest against this
abominable fallacy. When he had screwed up his courage so far as to
induce himself to accept this older and more experienced scoundrel's
partnership, he had conceived the possibility of the partner crying out
for halves. But that he should want so enormous a share of the spoil was
quite intolerable.

'Not worth eight hundred?' He could only gasp the questioning protest.

'If I had 'em to sell,' Steinberg answered calmly, flicking the waste
from his cigar by a movement of his little finger, 'I should think eight
hundred an uncommon good price for 'em. Later on and sold at second hand
they might fetch a thousand. Later on and sold at third hand they might
fetch fifteen hundred. One can hardly tell. Of course the value will go
on mounting with distance from the original source of danger and with
the lapse of time.'

He said all this very calmly and reflectively, and young Barter,
collecting his whirling wits as well as he could, tried a stroke of
diplomacy, which, as he fondly hoped, would answer a double purpose.

'She'll never let them go for that, or for anything like it.'

'She won't, won't she?' asked Steinberg, smiling brightly, as if the
statement amused him. 'Then she'll never let 'em go at all, my friend.
How did you come to find she had 'em?'

'I made a little bit of a discovery,' Barter answered.

'Ah! That was it, was it,' said the elder rascal, falling back into his
utter want of interest. 'You'll let me have that hundred.'

'I will in a day or two,' answered Barter, _arreanti_.

'Well, as for a day or two,' returned Steinberg, rubbing his forehead
with the tips of his fingers, and looking very careless and composed,
'I'm really very much afraid I can't let you have it. It's been
outstanding a goodish time, and to tell you the truth, old m