"Where is it ?" he demanded of Mr.Pyecroft.
"I'm not so sure I have it," said the shallow Mr.Pyecroft apologetically.

"It just seems to me that I saw writing like this.
If I have, it's over in a little room I keep.

But if I really do have it"-- with the shrewd look of a small mind--"we couldn't sell it for fifteen hundred." "How much d'you want ?" "Well"-- Mr.Pyecroft hesitated--"say--say three thousand." "Good God, that's plain blackmail!" "It may be, but poor people like us don't often get a chance like this." "I won't pay it!" "Perhaps, then,"-- apologetically,--"we'd better deal with Mrs.
Allistair direct." "Oh, well,--if you've got the letter, we won't scrap about the price.
I'll come across." "Cash ?" shrewdly queried the doltish brother.
"Sure.

I don't run no risks with checks." "I--we--wouldn't let the letter go out of our hands until it's paid for.

And we won't go to any office.