Grisewood had the air of one who looses a thunderbolt. But if he looked for the dire effect, which may reasonably be expected to attend such a Jove-like feat, he must have been sadly disappointed. The man to whom his words were addressed showed not the least sign of fear. “All that you say is true enough,” said the playwright, “if it is any satisfaction to you to know it.” “Make your mind easy on that score, my friend,” said Grisewood sourly. “It is a very considerable satisfaction to me to know it.” “And I presume you would gain a profit from your knowledge?” “Yes, Master Actor, to be brief and round with you, that is certainly my intention. And further, I would inform you that the reward I have in my mind is not one to be despised. Because you will do well to understand that I have ample evidence to implicate you and your fellow-players in the murder of my friend, Mr. Simon Heriot, who was foully done to death in his own house in the course of last Friday night.” “In other words, Sir Robert Grisewood,” said Shakespeare, with a biting coldness that seemed to exasperate his visitor, “you propose to take profit from the murder of your friend.” “Have a care, you ranting, play-acting swine!” Although one hand of the bully was done up in bandages, the other instinctively sought the hilt of his sword. But this action did nothing to modify the stern contempt of the actor. “You are here, Sir Robert Grisewood, to seek a price for your silence?” The tone seemed to bite like an acid. “Yes, my friend, that assumption is a true one, and I propose to fix just as heavy a price as you can afford to pay. And as I understand your penny peep-show tricks are making you a fortune, the sum I intend to exact shall not be unworthy of your figure in the world.” “Name it.” “What do you say to the sum of a thousand pounds, good Master Playwright and maker of verses?” Less of disdain than of pity entered the face of the poet. “The sum seems little enough,” he said, “for the deed it would purchase.” “Aye, little enough, Master Moralist, as you say, but still a fairly substantial figure for those who have to earn it by the sweat of their brains. And, of course,” Grisewood added with an ugly sneer, “other opportunities may arise of adding to the price of my silence, since you incline to think it too little.” “I think it neither too little nor too much,” said the playwright. “For, to be as frank with you, Sir Robert, as you have been with me, I care so little for your silence, that I would not stoop to buy it if even a single word were its price.” “Very well, then, my friend, you shall hang at Tyburn.” The blackmailer rose from his chair.