"He can't," said Gramont, placidly. "You'll all be under arrest."
Chacherre laughed scornfully, then spoke with that deadly gravity.
"Look here—you're a stranger here? Well, since you know so much, I'll tell you more! We can't be arrested, and even if you get us pinched, we'll never be convicted. Do you understand? We have influence! There are men here in New Orleans, men in the legislature, men at Washington, who will never see us molested!"
"They'll be surprised," said Gramont, although he felt that the man's words were true. "But not all of them are your friends, Ben. I don't think the governor of the state is in your gang. He's a pretty straight man, Ben."
"He's a fool like you! What is he? A puppet! He can do nothing except pardon us if the worst happens. You can't touch us."
"Well, maybe not," agreed Gramont, tapping at his pipe. "Maybe not, but we'll see! You seem mighty sure of where you stand, Ben."
Encouraged, Ben Chacherre laughed insolently.
"Let me loose," he commanded. "Or else you'll go over the road for the Midnight Masquer's work! My master has a dictograph in his office, and has your confession on record."
"So?" queried Gramont, his brows lifted. "You seem much in Mr. Fell's confidence, Ben. But I think I'll leave you tied up a little while. Memphis Izzy is going down to his summer cottage to-morrow, isn't he? I'll be there—but you won't. By the way, I think I'd better look through your pockets."
Ben Chacherre writhed suddenly, hurling a storm of curses at Gramont.