Palliser was guilty of a mere ghost of a start. Was there something in it, or was he only the gross, blundering fool he had trusted to his being? He stared at him a moment, and saw that there WAS something under the words and behind his professedly flattered grin—something which must be treated with a high hand.
“What do you mean?” he exclaimed haughtily. “I don't like your tone. Do you take ME for what you call a `con man'?”
“Good Lord, no!” answered Tembarom; and he looked straight at Palliser and spoke slowly. “You're a gentleman, and you're paying me a visit. You could no more try on a game to do me in my own house than—well, than I could TELL you if I'd got on to you if I saw you doing it. You're a gentleman.”
Palliser glared back into his infuriatingly candid eyes. He was a far cry from being a dullard himself; he was sharp enough to “catch on” to the revelation that the situation was not what he had thought it, the type was more complex than he had dreamed. The chap had been playing a part; he had absolutely been “jollying him along,” after the New York fashion. He became pale with humiliated rage, though he knew his only defense was to control himself and profess not to see through the trick. Until he could use his big lever, he added to himself.
“Oh, I see,” he commented acridly. “I suppose you don't realize that your figures of speech are unfortunate.”
“That comes of New York streets, too,” Tembarom answered with deliberation. “But you can't live as I've lived and be dead easy—not DEAD easy.”
Palliser had left his chair, and stood in contemptuous silence.
“You know how a fellow hates to be thought DEAD easy”—Tembarom actually went to the insolent length of saying the words with a touch of cheerful confidingness—“when he's NOT. And I'm not. Have another drink.”
There was a pause. Palliser began to see, or thought he began to see, where he stood. He had come to Temple Barholm because he had been driven into a corner and had a dangerous fight before him. In anticipation of it he had been following a clue for some time, though at the outset it had been one of incredible slightness. Only his absolute faith in his theory that every man had something to gain or lose, which he concealed discreetly, had led him to it. He held a card too valuable to be used at the beginning of a game. Its power might have lasted a long time, and proved an influence without limit. He forbore any mental reference to blackmail; the word was absurd. One used what fell into one's hands. If Tembarom had followed his lead with any degree of docility, he would have felt it wiser to save his ammunition until further pressure was necessary. But behind his ridiculous rawness, his foolish jocularity, and his professedly candid good humor, had been hidden the Yankee trickster who was fool enough to think he could play his game through. Well, he could not.
During the few moments' pause he saw the situation as by a photographic flashlight. He leaned over the table and supplied himself with a fresh brandy and soda from the tray of siphons and decanters. He gave himself time to take the glass up in his hand.