“You would?”

“I certainly should.”

“Then—­why not surprise yourself?”

“You must speak more plainly,” said I.

“Well then,” said the Postilion, still with his gaze abstracted, “supposin’ I was to place a guinea down on that there anvil o’ yours—­would that ’elp you to remember where Number Two—­’er —­might be?”

“No!”

“It wouldn’t?”

“No!”

“A guinea’s a lot o’ money!”

“It is,” I nodded.

“An’ you say it wouldn’t?”

“It would not!” said I.

“Then say—­oh! say two pun’ ten an’ ’ave done with it.”

“No!” said I, shaking my head.

“What—­not—­d’ye say ‘no’ to two pun’ ten?”

“I do.”

“Well, let’s say three pound.”

I shook my head and, drawing the iron from the fire, began to hammer at it.

“Well then,” shouted the Postilion, for I was making as much din as possible, “say four—­five—­ten—­fifteen—­twenty-five—­fifty!” Here I ceased hammering.

“Tell me when you’ve done!” said I.

“You’re a cool customer, you are—­ah! an’ a rum un’ at that—­I never see a rummer.”

“Other people have thought the same,” said I, examining the half-finished horseshoe ere I set it back in the fire.

“Sixty guineas!” said the Postilion gloomily.

“Come again!” said I.

“Seventy then!” said he, his gloom deepening.

“Once more!” said I.

“A ’undred—­one ’undred guineas!” said he, removing his hat to mop at his brow.

“Any more?” I inquired.

“No!” returned the Postilion sulkily, putting on his hat, “I’m done!”

“Did he set the figure at a hundred guineas?” said I.

“’Im—­oh! ’e’s mad for ’er, ’e is—­’e’d ruin ’isself, body and soul, for ’er, ‘e would, but I ain’t goin’ to ofer no more; no woman as ever breathed—­no matter ’ow ‘andsome an’ up-standin’ —­is worth more ’n a ’undred guineas—­it ain’t as if she was a blood-mare—­an’ I’m done!”

“Then I wish you good-day!”

“But—­just think—­a ’undred guineas is a fortun’!”

“It is!” said I.

“Come, think it over,” said the Postilion persuasively, “think it over, now!”

“Let me fully understand you then,” said I; “you propose to pay me one hundred guineas on behalf of your master, known heretofore as Number One, for such information as shall enable him to discover the whereabouts of a certain person known as Her, Number Two—­is that how the matter stands?”

“Ah! that’s ’ow it stands,” nodded the Postilion, “the money to be yours as soon as ever ’e lays ’ands on ’er—­is it a go?”

“No!”

“No?”

“No!”

“W’y, you must be stark, starin’ mad—­that you must—­unless you’re sweet on ’er yourself—­”

“You talk like a fool!” said I angrily.

“So you are sweet on ’er then?”