“For money,” he wrote back. “Shall I strike out? I think this is the time.”
I nodded.
“Thirty thousand,” said Pinkerton, making a leap of close upon three thousand dollars.
I could see doubt in Bellairs's eye; then, sudden resolution. “Thirty-five thousand,” said he.
“Forty thousand,” said Pinkerton.
There was a long pause, during which Bellairs's countenance was as a book; and then, not much too soon for the impending hammer, “Forty thousand and five dollars,” said he.
Pinkerton and I exchanged eloquent glances. We were of one mind. Bellairs had tried a bluff; now he perceived his mistake, and was bidding against time; he was trying to spin out the sale until the messenger boy returned.
“Forty-five thousand dollars,” said Pinkerton: his voice was like a ghost's and tottered with emotion.
“Forty-five thousand and five dollars,” said Bellairs.
“Fifty thousand,” said Pinkerton.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Pinkerton. Did I hear you make an advance, sir?” asked the auctioneer.
“I—I have a difficulty in speaking,” gasped Jim. “It's fifty thousand, Mr. Borden.”
Bellairs was on his feet in a moment. “Auctioneer,” he said, “I have to beg the favour of three moments at the telephone. In this matter, I am acting on behalf of a certain party to whom I have just written——”
“I have nothing to do with any of this,” said the auctioneer, brutally. “I am here to sell this wreck. Do you make any advance on fifty thousand?”
“I have the honour to explain to you, sir,” returned Bellairs, with a miserable assumption of dignity. “Fifty thousand was the figure named by my principal; but if you will give me the small favour of two moments at the telephone——”
