There were some more bids, and then I knew that Maskew was saying #91, and saw the head of the pin was lower; the hard lump of tallow in Aunt Jane's candle was thawing. The bailiff struck in: "Are ye mad, sirs, and you, Master Block, save your breath, and spare your money; and if this worshipful gentleman must become inn keeper at any price, let him have the place in the Devil's name, and I will give thee the Mermaid, at Bridport, with a snug parlour, and ten times the trade of this."

Elzevir seemed not to hear what he said, but only called out #100, with his face still looking out to sea, and the same sturdiness in his voice. Then Maskew tried a spring, and went to #120, and Elzevir capped him with #130, and #140, #150, #160, #170 followed quick. My breath came so fast that I was almost giddy, and I had to clench my hands to remind myself of where I was, and what was going on. The bidders too were breathing hard, Elzevir had taken his head from his hands, and the eyes of all were on the pin. The lump of tallow was worn down now; it was hard to say why the pin did not fall. Maskew gulped out #180, and Elzevir said #190, and then the pin gave a lurch, and I thought the Why Not? was saved, though at the price of ruin. No; the pin had not fallen, there was a film that held it by the point, one second, only one second. Elzevir's breath, which was ready to outbid whatever Maskew said, caught in his throat with the catching pin, and Maskew sighed out #200, before the pin pattered on the bottom of the brass candlestick.

The clerk forgot his master's presence and shut his notebook with a bang, "Congratulate you, sir," says he, quite pert to Maskew; "you are the landlord of the poorest pothouse in the Duchy at #200 a year."

The bailiff paid no heed to what his man did, but took his periwig off and wiped his head. "Well, I'm hanged," he said; and so the Why Not? was lost.

Just as the last bid was given, Elzevir half-rose from his chair, and for a moment I expected to see him spring like a wild beast on Maskew; but he said nothing, and sat down again with the same stolid look on his face. And, indeed, it was perhaps well that he thus thought better of it, for Maskew stuck his hand into his bosom as the other rose; and though he withdrew it again when Elzevir got back to his chair, yet the front of his waistcoat was a little bulged, and, looking side ways, I saw the silver-shod butt of a pistol nestling far down against his white shirt. The bailiff was vexed, I think, that he had been betrayed into such strong words; for he tried at once to put on as indifferent an air as might be, saying in dry tones, "Well, gentlemen, there seems to be here some personal matter to which I shall not attempt to spy. Two hundred pounds more or less is but a flea-bite to the Duchy; and if you, sir," turning to Maskew, "wish later on to change your mind, and be quit of the bargain, I shall not be the man to stand in your way. In any case, I imagine 'twill be time enough to seal the lease if I send it from London."

I knew he said this, and hinted at delay as wishing to do Elzevir a good turn; for his clerk had the lease already made out pat, and it only wanted the name and rent filed in to be sealed and signed. But, "No," says Maskew, "business is business, Mr Bailiff and the post uncertain to parts so distant from the capital as these; so I'll thank you to make out the lease to me now, and on May Day place me in possession."

"So be it then," said the bailiff a little testily, "but blame me not for driving hard bargains; for the Duchy, whose servant I am," and he raised his hat, "is no daughter of the horse-leech. Fill in the figures, Mr Scrutton, and let us away."

So Mr Scrutton, for that was Mr Clerk's name, scratches a bit with his quill on the parchment sheet to fill in the money, and then Maskew scratches his name, and Mr Bailiff scratches his name, and Mr Clerk scratches again to witness Mr Bailiff's name, and then Mr Bailiff takes from his mails a little shagreen case, and out from the case comes sealing-wax and the travelling seal of the Duchy.

There was my aunt's best winter-candle still burning away in the daylight, for no one had taken any thought to put it out; and Mr Bailiff melts the wax at it, till a drop of sealing-wax falls into the grease and makes a gutter down one side, and then there is a swealing of the parchment under the hot wax, and at last on goes the seal.