A
round sum of money was voted wherewith to buy back the pernicious
pamphlet from its respective owners with a view to its destruction.
In the space of a single day every copy vanished from the island--every
copy save one, which had found its way into Mr. Eames' collection. He
meant to keep that copy. He would have died sooner than yield it up.
When the clerical deputation arrived at his villa with soft words and
promises of more solid lucre, he professed the uttermost amazement at
their quest. Mr. Eames, the soul of honesty, the scorner of all
subterfuge and crooked dealing, put on a new character. He lied like a
trooper. He lied better than a trooper; that is to say, not only
forcefully but convincingly. He lied as only a lover of bibliographical
curios can lie, in defence of his treasure. He thanked them for their
courteous visit and bade them keep their gold. He professed himself a
poor recluse innocent of the world's ways and undesirous of riches,
adding, as a mere afterthought, that he had not so much as heard of the
noxious broadsheet in question.
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