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 sideways, I saw
the silver-shod butt of a pistol nestling far down against his white
shirt.
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