The face of the dancer was curiously impassive. He lifted his glass and drained it.
"An affair of death!" he exclaimed softly. "We Wolves—we bite, we wound, we rob. But death—ugh! There are ugly things to be thought of."
"And pleasant ones," Draconmeyer reminded him. "Five hundred louis is not enough. It shall be six hundred. A man may do much with six hundred golden louis."
Selingman sat forward once more in his place.
"Look here," he intervened, "you go too far, my friend. You never spoke to me of this. What have you against Hunterleys?"
"His nationality," Draconmeyer answered coolly. "I hate all Englishmen!"
The gaiety had left Selingman's face. He gazed at his companion with a curious expression.
"My friend," he murmured, "I fear that you are vindictive."
"Perhaps," Draconmeyer replied quietly. "In these matters I like to be on the safe side."
Jean Coulois struck the table lightly with his small, feminine hand. He showed all his teeth as though he had been listening to an excellent joke.