“Oh, cut that out,” Nick again protested, plainly seeing that he was gradually gaining his point. “You, or some of your gang, have got that Mexican in your clutches, along with the stuff he had in his suit case. Don’t hand me any denial. I know all about it. You got him out through the back door of the house, and Batty Lang was shot while trying to prevent me and my friends from following him, after he had stabbed my pal, Connie Taggart. You got away with Padillo and the stuff he brought from Mexico. I know all about it—and I’m going to have a fair share of it.”
Sadie Badger’s darker frowns showed how deeply she was impressed. She no longer responded angrily, however, but with the earnestness and covert cunning of a woman bent upon learning just what her visitor had up his sleeve. She drew nearer the table, bending over it and saying:
“You do seem to know, Goulard, what you are talking about. Admitting that you do—what do you mean by having things finely fixed?”
“In case anything happens to me while here,” Nick informed her, with unmistakable significance.
“Oh, that’s what you mean, eh?”
“That’s what I mean, all right.”
“But suppose you don’t get what you’re after?” questioned Sadie, narrowly eying him.
“You’ll get yours, then, and the rest of your gang,” Nick declared. “Take my word for that.”
“Explain. I don’t quite get you.”
“That’s done with few words,” Nick went on. “You’ve got this Mexican on your hands. You’ve got to put him away in order to safely keep that plunder. You can’t let him go. He’d have the guns after you within an hour.”