nerves were being badly rasped by the long delay. Now, he kept consulting his watch nervously: he turned, and looking at Eugene with a quiet but deep resentment in his eyes, he said:
“Look. If you’re going to let me have the money, I wish you’d let me have it now—please. Otherwise, I shall not need it.”
And Eugene, touched with a feeling of guilt at the deep and quiet resentment in his companion’s face, knowing he had promised him the money and feeling that this taunting procrastination was ungenerous and mean, said roughly:
“All right, come on. You can have it right away.”
They turned into the Rue St. Honoré, turned again, and walked to the Place Vendôme, where there was a small exchange office—or “all-night bank”—where travellers’cheques were cashed. They entered, he cashed his three remaining cheques: the amount was something over 900 francs. He counted the money, kept out 500 francs for Starwick, stuffed the rest into his pocket, and, turning, thrust the little sheaf of banknotes into Starwick’s hand, saying brutally:
“There’s you money, Frank. And now, good-bye to you. I needn’t detain you any longer.”
He turned to go, but the implication of his sneer had not gone unnoticed:
“Just a minute,” Starwick’s quiet voice halted him. “What did you mean by that?”
He paused, with a slow thick anger beating in his veins:
“By what?”
“By saying you needn’t detain me any longer?”
“You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”
“You mean the money?”
“Yes.”
Starwick looked quietly at him a moment longer, then thrust the little roll of banknotes back into his hand.
“Take it,” he said.
For a moment the other could not speak. A murderous fury choked him: he ground his teeth together, and clenched his fist, he felt a moment’s almost insane desire to grip that soft throat with his strangling hand and beat the face into a bloody jelly with his fist.
“Why, God-damn you—” he grated between clenched teeth. “Goddamn you for a—!” He turned away, saying harshly: “To hell with you!… I’m through!”
