Pratt stood, in a little hollow wherein they had paused, and thought,
rapidly and angrily. There was no doubt about it--he was trapped. This
fearful scoundrel at his side, who boasted of his cleverness, would
stick to him like a leach--he would have to share. All his own smart
schemes for exploiting Mrs. Mallathorpe, for ensuring himself a
competence for life, were knocked on the head. There was no helping
it--he would have to tell--and to share. And so, sullenly, resentfully,
he told.

Parrawhite listened in silence, taking in every point. Pratt, knowing
that concealment was useless, told the truth about everything,
concisely, but omitting nothing.

"All right!" remarked Parrawhite at the end, "Now, then, what terms do
you mean to insist on?"

"What's the good of going into that?" growled Pratt. "Now that you've
stuck your foot in it, what do my terms matter?"

"Quite right," agreed Parrawhite, "They don't. What matter is--our
terms. Now let me suggest--no, insist on--what they must be. Cash! Do
you know why I insist on that? No? Then I'll tell you. Because this
young barrister chap, Collingwood, has evidently got some suspicion
of--something."

"I can't see it," said Pratt uneasily. "He was only curious to know what
that letter was about."

"Never mind," continued Parrawhite. "He had some suspicion--or he
wouldn't have gone out there almost as soon as he reached Barford after