Peter Bolton looked at me in alarm.
"Oh, I have very little money, very little money," he said quickly.
"Except for such little items as five hundred thousand in Kendrick's notes, that you were just mentioning."
"Oh, them. Well, I'm expecting to lose that money, and a man who loses five hundred thousand feels pretty tight pinched."
"Now, as for the work to be done, if it were overlooking the Council of Nine and the anti-coolie agitation--"
"Anti-coolie agitation!" he exclaimed angrily. "I don't know anything about an anti-coolie agitation."
"Oh," said I apologetically, "I supposed you knew what Waldorf and Parks and Kearney were doing with the money you gave them. Didn't they tell you about it when they were here last night?"
"I don't know what you are talking about!" he cried angrily, but I read in his eyes anxiety and surprise at the accuracy of my information.
"Now if it were looking after them, I should want a larger fee than for looking after your plans with Big Sam."
A shade of gray passed over his face, and he held up one hand and gave me a malevolent look.