“Ay, did you?” said Monjoy grimly. Murgatroyd was turning to his tally again; he set his hand on his shoulder and spun him round as if he had been a skittle. Mish drew back the hand that held the knife. “Ye’ve been warned----” “We’ll talk about warnings in a minute. Listen, you, and every man here. If a finger’s laid on that man in the corner it shall be the beginning of a nasty business. That’s my promise.” Murgatroyd had greenish hazel eyes; they were on Monjoy’s like those of a cat. Suddenly he made an exclamation of contempt. “On _him_?” he sneered.--“Nobody wants to touch _him_. But if ye’ll speak up now to how mich your share is ye shall ha’ your chance at Cope when th’ lots is drawn.” Monjoy took a step back. After a moment he said unsteadily, “So you’re buying blood, are you?” “Not right what ye might call ‘buying’; anybody’s won’t do. Come in or stay out; it’s all one to us.... Will ye say two for your cousin, Dick o’ Dean?” James Eastwood cried out suddenly from the corner where Ellah crouched. “Ye’re all wrong; he can’t ha’ had it!” he cried. “Listen to what Emmason telled me! Rewards is paid on a sheriff’s certificate, and not of a month after conviction. It isn’t a month yet--d’ye hear?--it isn’t a month....” His voice ceased as suddenly as it had begun; he seemed to realise that Cope was not sticking at irregularities; and none took the trouble to answer him. Monjoy had fallen back quite to the wall. He steadied himself against it with one hand, and when he moved the hand it left its shape in moisture on the plaster. Now and then one of the group glanced at him, but they were intent on their own affair, and presently Mish said, “Well, let t’other stand ower, then.” He began to whisper, and Monjoy closed his eyes and continued to leave the moist prints on the plaster wall. Dazed, he strove to think. One thing only was clear to him: he would have nothing to do with the revolting business that was being whispered about him; and again he drew in his breath between his teeth. Cope had not returned--might not return; should he return ... and, moreover, his blood would be shed with Monjoy’s knowledge. The sweat trickled in streams from his hands; his eyes opened and rested with dread on Murgatroyd and on those who in this also were ready to follow any lead that was given them. Murgatroyd had taken a bunch of string from his pocket and was cutting it into lengths against the loom-timber--a long one--a short one--no, another long one. Monjoy watched, stupid and fascinated. Murgatroyd set the ends neatly together and bound them loosely about with another string; and suddenly Monjoy cried out aloud: “Stop--stop--you shall not do it----” Every head turned, and Murgatroyd advanced with the bundle of strings. “Weant we?” he said, the “V” of his brow deepening.