He was a stranger, about thirty years old, in Egyptian costume, of sallow complexion, black gleaming eyes, stature above the medium height, strongly built, determined looking, with anything but a pleasant expression about him. Did he and the notary know one another? Possibly. Were they not anxious that this should not be known just then? There was no doubt about that.
Anyhow, Antifer did not notice this little bit of bye-play—a look, a gesture, nothing more—and he continued the interview.
“Now, Mr. Ben Omar,” said he, “will you kindly explain why you want so much to get this letter, to know what it contains, so much so that you are willing to buy it from me if I happen to have it?”
“Mr. Antifer,” replied the notary, with some embarrassment, “I have had a certain Kamylk Pasha among my clients. On his behalf—”
“You have had, did you say?”
“Yes, and as the representative of his heirs—”
“His heirs!” exclaimed Antifer, with a movement of surprise that could not but astonish the notary. “He is dead,then?”
“He is dead.”
“Steady!” muttered Antifer, grinding the pebble within his teeth. “Kamylk is dead. That is worth remembering, and if they are up to any games—”
“And so, Mr. Antifer,” asked Ben Omar, giving him a side look, “you have not got this letter?”
“No.”
“That is a pity, for the heirs of Kamylk Pasha, who wish to collect everything that can recall the remembrance of their beloved relative—”
“Ah! a matter of remembrance only. Dear, kind hearts!”
“Simply so, Mr. Antifer, and these dear, kind hearts, as you say, would not have hesitated to have offered you a considerable sum to obtain possession of this letter.”
“How much would they have given?”
“What does that matter if you have not got it?”
“You might as well say.”
“Oh! a few hundred francs.”
“Pheugh!” said Captain Antifer.
“Perhaps even a few thousand.”
“Ha!” said Captain Antifer, whose patience was exhausted. And he gripped Ben Omar by the throat, dragged him towards him, and rolled out these words into his ear, with a shake between each: “I have your letter!”
“You have it!”
“Your letter with the double K!”
“Yes, the double K—that was my client’s signature.”
“I have it. I have read it and read it again. And I know, or rather I guess, why you want to possess it!”
“Sir?”
“And you are not going to get it!”
“Do you refuse?”
“Yes, I do. Unless you buy it from me?”
“How much?” asked the notary, digging his hand into his pocket to pick out his purse.
“How much? Fifty millions of francs!”
What a jump Ben Omar gave as Antifer, with his mouth open, his lips up, his teeth showing, looked at him as he had never been looked at before.
And then he drily added,—
“You can have it or leave it, as you please.”
“Fifty millions!” repeated the gasping notary.
“There is no bargaining, Mr. Ben Omar. You will get no discount out of me.”
“Fifty millions?”
“That is the price, and they can be in cash or in note or in a cheque on the Bank of France.”
The notary, abashed for an instant, gradually recovered his coolness. Evidently this confounded sailor knew of what importance this letter was to the heirs of Kamylk. In fact, did it not contain the information necessary in the search for the treasure? The scheme for getting possession of it had failed. Antifer was on his guard. The latter must be bought, or rather the latitude which would complete the longitude, which Ben Omar knew.
But, it may be asked, how did Ben Omar know that Antifer had the letter? Was he the former notary of the rich Egyptian? Was he the messenger instructed by the last wishes of Kamylk to bring Antifer the longitude in question? That we shall soon see.
In any case, whether Ben Omar was or was not acting under the orders of the Pasha’s heirs, he clearly understood that the letter would not be handed over without its price in gold.
But fifty millions!
Assuming a sly, coaxing air, he said, “I think you said fifty millions?”
“I did.”
“That is one of the funniest things I ever heard in all my life.”
“Mr. Ben Omar, would you like to hear a funnier?”
“Gladly.”
“Ah! Well then, you are an old thief, an old scoundrel from Egypt, an old crocodile of the Nile—”
“Sir!”
“There, I will stop. You are an old fisher in troubled waters, wanting to get at my secret instead of telling me yours, which is the only mission you were entrusted with—”
“You suppose so.”
“I suppose what is.”
“No. What it pleases you to imagine.”
“Enough, you consummate fool!”
“Sir!”
“I withdraw the consummate—out of deference. And shall I tell you what you really want to know about the letter?”
Did the notary imagine that Antifer was going to commit himself? Anyhow, his two little eyes glowed like carbuncles as he waited.
“What you want to know, Ben Omar, is not what the letter says regarding the services rendered by my father. No! You want the four figures—you understand me well enough, the four figures—”
“The four figures?” murmured Ben Omar.
“Yes, the four figures it contains, and which I shall not hand over for less than twelve and a half millions each! That is all. We have said enough! Good morning!”
And sticking his hands into his pockets, Captain Antifer strode off, whistling a favourite air, of which nobody, not even himself, knew the origin, and which was more like the howling of a dog than any of the melodies of Auber.
Ben Omar, petrified, seemed to have taken root on the spot, as if he were a bollard or a mile-post. He who had reckoned twirling this sailor round his finger as if he were a fellah—and Mahomet knows how he had dealt with the unfortunate peasants whose ill-fortune had led them to his office, one of the best in Alexandria!
He saw, with haggard eye, the sailor going farther and farther away from him, swinging his hips, hoisting his shoulders, first one and then the other, and gesticulating as if his friend Tregomain was with him under the usual fire.
Suddenly