He had spoken slowly, and at last he ceased speaking, as if overcome by a growing drowsiness. A queer silence followed this singular man's words. Barebone had not resumed his seat. He was standing by the mantelpiece, as he often did, being quick and eager when interested, and not content to sit still and express himself calmly in words, but must needs emphasise his meaning by gestures and a hundred quick movements of the head. “Go on,” he said. “Let us have the proposition.” “And no more advice?” Loo glanced at Miriam. He could see all three faces where he stood, but only by the light of the fire. Miriam was nearest to the hearth. He could see that her eyes were aglow--possibly with anger. Barebone shrugged his shoulders. “You are not an agent--you are an advocate,” he said. Turner raised his eyes with the patience of a slumbering animal that has been prodded. “Yes,” he said--“your advocate. There is one more chance I should advise any man to shun--to cast to the four winds, and hold on only to that tangible possibility of happiness in the present--it is the chance of enjoying, in some dim and distant future, the satisfaction of having, in a half-forgotten past, done one's duty. One's first duty is to secure, by all legitimate means, one's own happiness.” “What is the proposition?” interrupted Barebone, quickly; and Turner, beneath his heavy lids, had caught in the passing the glance from Miriam's eyes, for which possibly both he and Loo Barebone had been waiting. “Fifty thousand pounds,” replied the banker, bluntly, “in first-class English securities, in return for a written undertaking on your part to relinquish all claim to any heritage to which you may think yourself entitled in France. You will need to give your word of honour never to set foot on French soil--and that is all.” “I never, until this moment,” replied Barebone, “knew the value of my own pretensions.” “Yes,” said Turner, quietly; “that is the obvious retort. And having made it, you can now give a few minutes' calm reflection to my proposition--say five minutes, until that clock strikes half-past nine--and then I am ready to answer any questions you may wish to ask.” Barebone laughed good-humouredly, and so far fell in with the suggestion that he leant his elbow on the corner of the mantelpiece, and looked at the clock. CHAPTER XXIX. IN THE DARK Had John Turner been able to see round the curve of his own vast cheeks he might have perceived the answer to his proposition lurking in a little contemptuous smile at the corner of Miriam's closed lips. Loo saw it there, and turned again to the contemplation of the clock on the mantelpiece which had already given a preliminary click. Thus they waited until the minutes should elapse, and Turner, with a smile of simple pleasure at their ready acquiescence in his suggestion, probably reflected behind his vacuous face that silence rarely implies indecision.