It was plain that Wilkinson was surprised to learn that Chatham knew Palermo; and it was also apparent that Wilkinson was not pleased.
“So you know Palermo?”
As Seth Wilkinson pronounced these words, he arose from his chair, walked across the room, and picked up a pipe that lay on the table. He stuffed the pipe with tobacco, and stared thoughtfully at the far wall of the room.
Then he turned savagely toward the man sitting in the chair.
“I’ll tell you what I think of Palermo!” he growled. “If I had that four-flusher here in this room, I’d give him a lacing that he would never forget! You can tell him that for me, Chatham!”
WILKINSON’S threat was not an idle one. He was a huge, powerful man, with a firm-set jaw that characterized a fighter.
Yet Palermo was unperturbed. Confident beneath his disguise, he simply looked mildly surprised at Wilkinson’s outburst.
“Let me tell you something about Palermo!” Wilkinson stopped his discourse long enough to light his pipe. “He’s a smooth rascal, who pretends to be a man of importance. I wouldn’t trust him for five minutes, and he knows it!”
“But you trusted him once,” objected Palermo, mimicking Chatham’s voice. “He told me so himself. In fact—”
“That was before he tried to swindle me,” interrupted Wilkinson bitterly.