Sullivan looked sharply at her, but evidently nothing about her appearance or speech excited his suspicions.
"Mr. Sullivan," continued Ralston from his seat in the horsehair rocker, "I don't mean you any harm. In fact, I can do you a good turn now and then if you'll help me out. All I want is my coin for turning up this chap Steadman. I know he's no good. He's anybody's money. He's nothing to me. But it's all in my day's work. Now, don't think me disagreeable. I want Steadman, you want—well, you don't want certain little incidents of your career to get to the ears of the district attorney—the Shackleton bonds, for example. Now, don't be alarmed. I haven't the slightest intention of giving you away, but, come now, let's be on the level with each other."
Sullivan cast an evil look at him.
"You think you've got something on me, eh? Prove it! What bonds did you say?"
Ralston saw that he had nearly made a slip.
"Quite right," said he. "I said Shackleton bonds—I was thinking of Shackleton. Of course I meant the Mercantile bonds. But if you have any doubt about my sincerity I might go into the Masterson matter——"
But Sullivan was on his feet, his eyes staring, and his face as pale as it had been on the floor of "The Martin."
"For Heaven's sake!" he implored.
Ralston rose.
"Come! Come! Is it a bargain? You help me and I help you. Where is he?"