“No, you don’t!” Wix sharply stopped him. “If you have any secrets, keep them to yourself. I am stone deaf.”
Gilman’s eyes widened with a look of positive terror. For the first time in his life he had met that glare in the eyes of a supposed friend which denied friendship, sentiment or emotion of any sort; which told only of cold self-interest. Two or three times he essayed to speak, but he could not. He only stood with his sides heaving, like a spent dog.
“There is no use whining about this thing,” Wix went on sharply. “We’ve got to raise money, and that’s all there is to it. How about your profits that I’ve been handing you? I’ve spent mine.”
There was no answer.
“You said something about owing four hundred dollars before we began,” Wix went on. “I suppose you repaid that—that loan.”
Gilman dumbly nodded.
“I’ve paid you over a thousand dollars rake-off. I suppose you saved the rest of it?”
Again Gilman nodded his head.
“Well, bring me that six hundred or whatever it is.”