“What money?” he inquired with a well-feigned surprise.  “I do not understand.”

“Twenty thousand scudi, the price of the work,” replied Meschini with alarming bluntness.

“Twenty thousand scudi!” cried the prince.  “I remember that there was some mention of a sum—­two thousand, I think I said.  Even that is enormous, but I was carried away in the excitement of the moment.  We are all liable to such weakness—­”

“You agreed to pay me twenty thousand scudi in cash on the day that the verdict was given in favour of your son-in-law.”

“I never agreed to anything of the kind.  My dear friend, success has quite turned your head!  I have not so much money at my disposal in the whole world.”

“You cannot afford to make a fool of me,” cried Meschini, making a step forward.  His face was red with anger, and his long arms made odd gestures.  “Will you pay me the money or not?”

“If you take this tone with me I will pay you nothing whatever.  I shall even cease to feel any sense of gratitude—­”

“To hell with your gratitude!” exclaimed the other fiercely.  “Either you pay me the money now, or I go at once to the authorities and denounce the whole treachery.”

“You will only go to the galleys if you do.”

“You will go with me.”

“Not at all.  Have you any proof that I have had anything to do with the matter?  I tell you that you are quite mad.  If you wanted to play this trick on me you should have made me sign an agreement.  Even then I would have argued that since you had forged the documents you had, of course, forged the agreement also.  But you have nothing, not so much as a scrap of paper to show against me.  Be reasonable and I will be magnanimous.  I will give you the two thousand I spoke of in the heat of anticipation—­”

“You will give me the twenty thousand you solemnly promised me,” said Meschini, with concentrated anger.

Montevarchi rose slowly from his chair and rang the bell.  He knew that Meschini would not be so foolish as to expose himself, and would continue to hope that he might ultimately get what he asked.

“I cannot argue with a madman,” he said calmly.

He was not in the least afraid of the librarian.  The idea never entered his mind that the middle-aged, round-shouldered scholar could be dangerous.  A single word from Gouache, a glance of the artist’s eye had cowed him less than an hour ago; but Meschini’s fury left him indifferent.  The latter saw that for the present there was nothing to be done.  To continue such a scene before a servant would be the worst kind of folly.

“We will talk the matter over at another time,” he said sullenly, as he left the study by a small door which opened upon a corridor in communication with the library.