“A million and three-quarters,” he repeated calmly, “is a lot of money.”
Old Reale chuckled softly.
“All made out of the confiding public, with the aid of me—and Connor and Massey——”
“Massey is a pig!” the old man interjected spitefully.
Jimmy puffed a cloud of tobacco smoke.
“Wrung with sweat and sorrow from foolish young men who backed the tiger and played high at Reale’s Unrivaled Temple of Chance, Cairo, Egypt—with branches at Alexandria, Port Said, and Suez.”
The figure in the wadded gown writhed in a paroxysm of silent merriment.
“How many men have you ruined, Reale?” asked Jimmy.
“The Lord knows!” the old man answered cheerfully; “only three as I knows of—two of ’em’s dead, one of ’em’s dying. The two that’s dead left neither chick nor child; the dying one’s got a daughter.”
Jimmy eyed him through narrowed lids.