‘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, _arréanti_. ‘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 man, I want it very badly. If you’ll let me have it to-night I shall be obliged to you. I’ve been hit rather hard this last day or two. Shall we make that a bargain? To-night?’ ‘I--I’m afraid,’ Barter stammered, ‘it’s no use talking about to-night.’ ‘Well,’ said Steinberg, with a pitiless uninterested suavity, ‘you know the rules.’ He drew a little book from his pocket, and tossed it over the table to his guest. ‘You’ll find it on page five. Rule fourteen. It’s ticked in red ink, if you’ll take the trouble to look at it.’