Raymond laughed low. Jacques Bourget and his wife appeared to have an engrossing topic of conversation, if they had been at it since afternoon! Also Jacques Bourget appeared to be of an unforgiving nature!
There was no veranda, not even a step, the door was on a level with the ground; and, from the little Raymond could see of the house now that he was close beside it, it appeared to be as down-at-the-heels and as shiftless as its proprietor. He leaned forward to avail himself of the light from the window, and, taking out a roll of bills, of smaller denominations than those which he carried in his pocketbook, he counted out five ten-dollar notes.
Jacques Bourget from within was still in the midst of a blasphemous tirade. Raymond rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles. Bourget's voice ceased instantly, and there was silence for a moment. Raymond rapped again—and then, as a chair leg squeaked upon the floor, and there came the sound of a heavy tread approaching the door, he drew quickly back into the shadows at one side.
The door was flung open, and Bourget's face, battered and cut, an eye black and swollen, his lip puffed out to twice its normal size, peered out into the darkness.
“Who's there?” he called out gruffly.
“S-sh! Don't talk so loud!” Raymond cautioned in a guarded voice. “Are you Jacques Bourget?”
The man, with a start, turned his face in the direction of Raymond's voice. Mechanically he dropped his own voice.
“Mabbe I am, and mabbe I'm not,” he growled suspiciously. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you if you are Jacques Bourget,” Raymond answered. “And if you are Jacques Bourget I can put you in the way of turning a few dollars tonight, to say nothing of another little matter that will be to your liking.”
The man hesitated, then drew back a little in the doorway.