He started from his seat with a howl, and flung himself towards Mr. Cass. But the merchant was ready for this, and pushing back his chair sprang to his feet. Job found himself recoiling before the barrel of a revolver. "You get back to your seat, or I'll blow your brains out!" said Mr. Cass, and said it with such ferocity that the ruffian crawled back like a whipped dog. But, then, Mr. Cass had the blood of many a slave-owning Spaniard in his veins, and was much more savage than an ordinary Anglo-Saxon. "Do you think I would trust myself here without protection, you wretch?" he asked, resuming his seat. "No; you move, and I shoot. I am less English than Spanish, let me tell you; and perhaps I do not consider my actions so carefully as the people of this country."
"You re a fierce one, you are, anyway," grumbled the man, climbing up to his seat with an uneasy eye on the weapon which still covered him. "My sister is just like you, plucky as a bantam, she is."
"Which sister do you mean, Mrs. Marshall or Miss Cass? You have two, you know, adopted sisters?"
"Oh, she told you that, did she?" said Job, rubbing his head, and evidently perplexed at the extent of his visitor's knowledge. "Well, it seems you know a lot, you do!"
"Enough to hang you," was the curt reply.
"That's a lie!" shouted Job. "I didn't lay a finger on him."
"Then how did you become possessed of the red pocket-book?"
The gypsy started, and gave Mr. Cass another of his keen glances. He did not reply immediately, but seemed to be reflecting. At length, "How do I know you are not laying a trap for me? The business I had with the high-born Gentile lady concerns her only. She has not told me to speak of hidden things to you."
"If you don't tell me--and tell me quickly too--you will have to reply to a magistrate."
"What magistrate, rye?"