"I don't know that I want it." Elijah spoke with deliberation; but his mind was working rapidly.
"Better take it; I can make it worth your while—either way," he added with a cunning leer.
Elijah felt a cold sinking of the heart. His chickens were coming home to roost sooner than he had expected. He recognized the fact that his note to the Las Cruces, secured by his interest in the company, was in the nature of a forced loan, after all; that it would sooner or later compel him to answer some ugly questions to some men in an ugly mood. The iron-gray face of Seymour rose uppermost in his mind.
"What do you want for your charter?" He steadied his voice with an effort.
"I'm not going to squeeze you, just because I've got you cinched. That isn't T. J. Mellin, Esq. 'Live and let live'; that's my motto; only live well while you're at it. We're a long time dead."
"What do you want for your charter?" Elijah repeated.
"Well," Mellin looked meditatively at the burning end of his cigar which he turned toward himself,—"I'm in need of a little cash just now. A matter of five thousand. One hundred thousand on time, in addition, will do."
"You won't get it. I'm not obliged to take your charter." Elijah's jaws snapped together, his eyes were narrowed to a slit.
"Just as you say, Berl. There are worse places than San Quentin. You and I would be taken care of there, at no expense to ourselves."
The state penitentiary had never seemed a reality to Elijah before. His face paled. Mellin noted the look with evident satisfaction.