“Oh, no. Do not use so harsh a word, I beg of you. Not betray, but report what she is doing.”
“That is a very fine distinction,” said Ned in musing tone. The other, struck by his thoughtful tone and posture, too hastily assumed that his errand was complete. He extended a roll of bills and shoved them across the table, having first cautiously looked around him.
“You will make your reports when you arrive at Boca del Sierras, the principal city of Costaveza,” he said, “when your shore boat docks, a man will approach you and say, ‘A carriage, senors.’ You will go with him, and he will bring you to a place outside the city. Then you can make your reports, and——”
“Then we get more money?” inquired Ned in level tone, although danger signals gleamed in his eyes.
“Why, yes. You see, your services will be very valuable. You can keep us informed of every move of the Beale. But now place that money in your pocket.”
“I don’t think so; I’ve another use for it,” said Ned quietly.
“Another use for it, senor, why——”
“This!” shot out the Dreadnought Boy, springing to his feet and flinging the roll of bills at the South American agent. It hit the dark-skinned fellow full in the face, and with such force was it hurled that a dark patch burned out against his countenance where it had struck. Jules Charbonde’s skin went a sickly yellow. His eyes glittered as balefully as a serpent’s.
“So,” he snarled, “you insult a South American gentleman?”