"I've got a hunch she's salving you, Count. She's stuck on Phillips, like I told you, and she's trying to get a peek at your hole card."
It was characteristic of Courteau that he should take instant offense at this reflection upon his sagacity, this doubt of his ability as a charmer.
"You insult my intelligence," he cried, stiffly, "and, above all, I possess intelligence. You—do not. No. You are coarse, you are gross. I am full of sentiment—"
"Rats!" McCaskey growled. "I get that way myself sometimes. Sentiment like yours costs twenty dollars a quart. But this ain't the time for a spree; we got business on our hands."
The Count eyed his friend with a frown. "It is a personal affair and concerns our business not in the least. I am a revengeful person; I have pride and I exact payment from those who wound it. I brought my wife here as a punishment and I propose to make her drink with you. Your company is not agreeable at any time, my friend, and she does you an honor—"
"Cut out that tony talk," Joe said, roughly. "You're a broken-hipped stiff and you're trying to grab her bank-roll. Don't you s'pose I'm on? My company was all right until you got your hand in the hotel cash-drawer; now I'm coarse. Maybe she's on the square—she fell for you once—but I bet she's working you. Make sure of this, my high and mighty nobleman"—for emphasis the speaker laid a heavy hand upon the Count's shoulder and thrust his disagreeable face closer—"that you keep your mouth shut. Savvy? Don't let her sweat you—"
The admonitory words ended abruptly, for the door of the box reopened and Joe found the Countess Courteau facing him. For an instant their glances met and in her eyes the man saw an expression uncomfortably reminiscent of that day at Sheep Camp when she had turned public wrath upon his brother Jim's head. But the look was fleeting; she turned it upon her husband, and the Count, with an apology for his delay, entered the box, dragging McCaskey with him.
Frank, it appeared, shared his brother's suspicions; the two exchanged glances as Joe entered; then when the little party had adjusted itself to the cramped quarters they watched the Countess curiously, hoping to analyze her true intent. But in this they were unsuccessful. She treated both of them with a cool, impartial formality, quite natural under the circumstances, but in no other way did she appear conscious of that clash on the Chilkoot trail. It was not a pleasant situation at best, and Joe especially was ill at ease, but Courteau continued his spendthrift role, keeping the waiters busy, and under the influence of his potations the elder McCaskey soon regained some of his natural sang-froid. All three men drank liberally, and by the time the lower floor had been cleared for dancing they were in a hilarious mood. They laughed loudly, they shouted greetings across to other patrons of the place, they flung corks at the whirling couples below.
Meanwhile, they forced the woman to imbibe with them. Joe, in spite of his returning confidence, kept such close watch of her that she could not spill her glass into the bucket, except rarely. Hilda hated alcohol and its effect; she was not accustomed to drinking. As she felt her intoxication mounting she became fearful that the very medium upon which she had counted for success would prove to be her undoing. Desperately she battled to retain her wits. More than once, with a reckless defiance utterly foreign to her preconceived plans, she was upon the point of hurling the bubbling contents of her glass into the flushed faces about her and telling these men how completely she was shamming, but she managed to resist the temptation. That she felt such an impulse at all made her fearful of committing some action equally rash, of dropping some word that would prove fatal.
It was a hideous ordeal. She realized that already the cloak of decency, of respectability, which she had been at such pains to preserve during these difficult years, was gone, lost for good and all. She had made herself a Lady Godiva; by this night of conspicuous revelry she had undone everything. Not only had she condoned the sins and the shortcomings of her dissolute husband, but also she had put herself on a level with him and with the fallen women of the town—his customary associates. Courteau had done this to her. It had been his proposal. She could have throttled him where he sat.