All his mind was prepared to deal with on the spur of the moment was the
fact of this offer, ignoring its application and its consequences as
things which for the moment lay outside his range of thought.

As far as he was able to reflect, it was to assume that there was more
here than met the eye. Davenant was too practised as a player of "the
game" to pay a big price for a broken potsherd, unless he was tolerably
sure in advance that within the potsherd or under it there lay more than
its value. It was not easy to surmise the form of the treasure nor the
spot where it was hidden, but that it was there--in kind satisfactory to
Davenant himself--Guion had no doubt. It was his part, therefore, to be
astute and wary, not to lose the chance of selling, and yet not to allow
himself to be overreached. If Davenant was playing a deep game, he must
play a deeper. He was sorry his head ached and that he felt in such poor
trim for making the effort. "I must look sharp," he said to himself;
"and yet I must be square and courteous. That's the line for me to
take." He tried to get some inspiration for the spurt in telling himself
that in spite of everything he was still a man of business. When at last
he began to speak, it was with something of the feeling of the
broken-down prize-fighter dragging himself bleeding and breathless into
the ring for the last round with a young and still unspent opponent.

"I didn't suppose you were in--in a position--to do that."

"I am." Davenant nodded with some emphasis.

"Did you think that that was what I meant when I--I opened my heart to
you last night?"

"No. I know it wasn't. My offer is inspired by nothing but what I feel."