There was no change in the Jew's face. The smile did not alter.
“And this is the money that Mr. Grayson tried to borrow for you, and failed? Is it not so?”
Jack nodded.
“And you have tried everywhere to get it yourself? All the afternoon you have been at it?” Still the same queer smile—one of confirmation, as if he had known it all the time.
Again Jack nodded. Isaac was either a mind reader or he must have been listening at the keyhole when he poured out his heart to Peter.
“Yes, that is what I thought when I saw you come in a little while ago, dragging your feet as if they were lead, and your eyes on the ground. The step and the eye, Mr. Breen, if you did but know it, make a very good commercial agency. When the eye is bright and the walk is quick, your customer has the money to pay either in his pocket or in his bank; when the step is dull and sluggish, you take a risk; when the eye looks about with an anxious glance and the step is stealthy, and then when you take the measure for the coat, both go out dancing, you may never get a penny. But that is only to tell you how I know,” the tailor chuckled softly. “And now one thing more”—he was serious now—“when must you have this ten thousand dollars?”
“Before Monday night.”
“In cash?”
“In cash or something I can get cash on.”
The tailor rose from his seat with a satisfied air—he had evidently reached the point he had been striving for—laid the stump of his cigar on the edge of the mantel, crossed the room, fumbled in the side pocket of a coat which hung on a nail in an open closet; drew out a small key; sauntered leisurely to his desk, all the while crooning a tune to himself—Jack following his every movement, wondering what it all meant, and half regretting that he had not kept on to the ferry instead of wasting his time. Here he unlocked a drawer, took out a still smaller key—a flat one this time—removed some books and a small Barye bronze tiger from what appeared to be a high square table, rolled back the cloth, bringing into view an old-fashioned safe, applied the key and swung back a heavy steel door. Here, still crooning his song in a low key, dropping it and picking it up again as he moved—quite as does the grave-digger in “Hamlet”—he drew forth a long, flat bundle and handed it to Jack.