"Ah!" Again that beast-like snarl. There was no green glare left in the watching eyes—only red, leaping flame. "And—you like poverty?" asked the Indian in the tone of one seeking information.
"I detest it," said Rivington, with unusual energy.
Dinghra drew a step nearer, noiselessly, like a cat. His lips began to smile. He could not have been aware of the tigerish ferocity of his eyes.
"I should like to make a bargain with you, Mr. Rivington," he said.
Rivington, his hands in his pockets, looked him over with a cool appraising eye. He said nothing at all.
"This girl," said Dinghra, his voice suddenly very soft and persuasive, "she is worth a good deal to you—doubtless?"
"Doubtless," said Rivington.
"She is worth—what?"
Rivington stared uncomprehendingly.
With a slight, contemptuous gesture the Indian proceeded to explain.