Steinberg went on sipping and smoking, and said nothing; but when the young scoundrel, his companion, had somewhat recovered himself and dared again to look at him, there was the same shrewd and wary glint in his eyes.
Young Barter had been unhappy enough before this, but after it the money became a burden hateful and horrible. He met Steinberg often, and forced himself to be noisy in his company. In his dread of seeming low-spirited, or ill at ease, he said things about his dead father which he would have left unsaid, had he consulted the little good that was left in him; and Steinberg seemed to watch him very closely.
Young Barter put off his creditor with promises. He would have lots of money by and by. That seemed credible enough in the position of affairs, and Steinberg waited. In a while, however, he became exigent, and declined any longer to be satisfied with promises. One night the unhappy rascal, playing all the more because of his troubles, all the more wildly, and certainly all the worse, fell back upon his LO.U.‘s. Steinberg followed him from the club. It was late, and the streets were very quiet.
‘This won’t do, you know, Barter,’ said Steinberg, tapping him on the shoulder as they walked side by side.
‘Begad it won’t,’ said young Barter, doing his best to make light of it. ‘They’ve been cutting into me pretty freely this past week or two.’
‘Well,’ said Steinberg, puffing at his eternal cigar, and looking askant at Barter under the light of a street-lamp which they happened to be nearing at the moment, ‘what you’ve got to do, you know, is to find the man who knows Mr. Bommaney.’
The commotion which assailed Barter at this speech was like an inward earthquake.
‘What—what do you mean?’ he panted.
‘That’s what you’ve got to do,’ said Steinberg tranquilly.
‘Do you mean to insinuate——’ Barter began to bluster; but the older, cooler, and more accomplished scoundrel stopped him contemptuously.