“My God, the man’s mad!” muttered Hunchback Joe under his breath. “I’m up against a maniac!”
Jimmie Dale had taken his handkerchief from his pocket, and, carrying it to his mouth, had moistened the adhesive side of the little seal. His voice rasped, as his hand went down upon the table.
“You blot on God’s earth!” he said hoarsely. “That’s enough of that! The buttons are off the foils to-night, Hunchback Joe!”
For the second time, Hunchback Joe’s eyes had ceased to blink. He was staring at the gray seal on the table top in front of him, and now in spite of his effort to maintain nonchalance, a whiteness had come into his face.
“You!” he shrank back a little in his chair. “The Gray Seal!”
Jimmie Dale’s lips were thin and drawn tight together. He made no answer.
It was Hunchback Joe who broke the silence.
“What’s your price?” he asked thickly. “I suppose you’ve got those—those other things, or at least you know where they are.”
“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale grimly, “I know where they are.”
“Well”—Hunchback Joe hesitated, fumbling for his words—“we’re both tarred with the same brush, only you’re worse than I am. I’ve got to pay your price, of course. Make it reasonable. I haven’t got all the money in the world. Tell me where those things are, and name your figures.”