“Well, come in,” he invited. “There's no one but the old woman here.”
“The old woman is one old woman too many,” Raymond said roughly. “I'm not on exhibition. You come out here, and shut the door. You've nothing to be afraid of—the only thing I have to do with the police is to keep away from them, and that takes me all my time.”
“I ain't worrying about the police,” said Bourget shrewdly.
“Maybe not,” returned Raymond. “I didn't say you were. I said I was. I've got a hundred dollars here that——”
A woman appeared suddenly in the doorway behind Bourget.
“What is it? Who is it, Jacques?” she shrilled out inquisitively.
Bourget, for answer, swore at her, pushed her back, and, slamming the door behind him, stepped outside.
“Well, what is it? And who are you?” he demanded.
“My name is Desforges—Pierre Desforges,” said Raymond, his voice still significantly low. “That doesn't mean anything to you—and it doesn't matter. What I want you to do is to drive a man to the second station from here to-night—St. Eustace is the name, isn't it?—and you get a hundred dollars for the trip.”
“What do you mean?” Bourget's voice mingled incredulity and avarice. “A hundred dollars for that, eh? Are you trying to make a fool of me?”