Draconmeyer leaned suddenly forward. His eyes were bright, his hands gripped the table.
"Listen!" he whispered in Coulois' ear. "Are the Wolves sheep, indeed, that they can do no more than twist ankles and break heads? That two hundred shall be five hundred, Jean Coulois, but it must be a cemetery to which they take him, and not a hospital!"
"That two hundred shall be five hundred, but it must be a cemetery to which they take him!"
There was a moment's silence. Selingman sat back in his place. He was staring at his companion with wide-open eyes. Jean Coulois was moistening his lips with his tongue, his eyes were brilliant.
"Five hundred louis!" he repeated under his breath.
"Is it not enough?" Draconmeyer asked coldly. "I do not believe in half measures. The man who is wounded may be well before he is welcome. If five hundred louis is not enough, name your price, but let there be no doubt. Let me see what the Wolves can do when it is their leader who handles the knife!"