“The spoils,” said Josephine, “what do you mean?

“I can give you a practical answer, Nina.  I have made a good bargain, a splendid bargain; seeing that I have only put on the first screw, my success has largely anticipated my wildest hopes.  Josephine, my poor girl, you need no longer suffer the pangs of hunger and neglect.  You and I are no longer penniless.  What do you say to an income?  What do you say to four hundred a year?”

Josephine put up her thin, white hand to her forehead.

“Four hundred a year?” she repeated, vaguely.  “I don’t quite know what it means.  What have we now?”

“Anything or nothing.  Sometimes a pound a week, sometimes two pounds, sometimes five shillings.”

“And we have in the future?”

“Didn’t I tell you, child?  Four hundred a year.  One hundred pounds paid regularly every quarter.  Got without earning, got without toiling for.  Ours whether we are sick or well; ours under any circumstances from this day forward; ours just for keeping a little bit of a secret to ourselves.”

“A secret which keeps me out of my own.”

“We have no money to prove it, child, at present.  In the meantime, this is a certainty.  Whenever we get our proofs complete we can cease to take this annuity.”

“This bribe, you mean.  I scorn it.  I hate it.  I won’t touch it.”

Josephine’s eyes again gleamed with anger.

“I hate bribes,” she repeated.

“All right, child.  You can go on starving.  You can go your own way, I mine.  For myself, at least, I have accepted the annuity; and if you anger me any more, I’ll burn the documents tonight, which give you the shadow of a claim.”

Josephine turned pale.  There were moments when, fearless as she was, she feared this queer old man.  The present was one of them.  She sat quite still for a moment or two, during which she thought deeply.  Then she spoke in an altered tone.

“Grandfather, if I consent to make no fuss, to say nothing, to reveal nothing by word or action, will you give me half your annuity?”

“Why so, Nina?  Had we not better live together?  When all is said and done, I’d miss you, Grandchild, if you left me.”

“You’d get over that, Grand-dad.  These are not the days when people are especially affectionate.  Will you give me two hundred a year, and let me live away from you?”

The old man looked down at the floor, and up at the ceiling; then furtively into his granddaughter’s face, then away from her.

“It’s late now, we’ll talk of it to-morrow,” he said.

“No, I am not sleepy any longer.  Two hundred a year is worth staying awake for.  Will you give it to me?  You can promise to-night as well as tomorrow.”

“This is an important thing.  I can’t make up my mind all in a minute.  I’ve got to think.”

“You can think now.  I’ll give you half-an-hour.  I’ll shut my tired eyes, and you can think hard for half-an-hour.”