Lablache had expected another outburst of anger, but John only leered in response to the other's contempt. Drunk as he was, the rancher saw the absurdity of the attack.
"Piffle!" he exclaimed. "Now see, when Jacky comes in you shall hear what she has to say."
"Poker" John smiled with satisfaction at his own 'cuteness. He felt that he had outwitted the astute usurer. His simplicity, however, was of an infantile order.
"That would be useless." Lablache did not want to be confronted with Jacky. "My mind is quite made up. The Calford Trust will begin proceedings at once, unless—"
"Unless I give my consent."
The satisfaction had suddenly died out of John Allandale's face. Even in his maudlin condition he understood the relentless purpose which backed the money-lender's proposal. To his credit be it said that he was thinking only of Jacky—the one being who was dearer to him than all else in the world. For himself he had no thought—he did not care what happened. But he longed to save his niece from the threatened catastrophe. His seared old face worked in his distress. Lablache beheld the sign, and knew that he was weakening.
"Why force me to extremities, John?" he said presently. "If you would only be reasonable, I feel sure you would have no matter for regret. Now, suppose I went a step further."
"No—no," weakly. There followed a pause. John Allandale avoided the other's eyes. To the old man the silence of the room became intolerable. He opened his lips to speak. Then he closed them—only to open them again. "But—but what step do you propose? Is—is it honest?"
"Perfectly." Lablache was smiling in that indulgent manner he knew so well how to assume. "And it might appeal to you. Pressure is a thing I hate. Now—suppose we leave the matter to—to chance."
"Chance?" The rancher questioned the other doubtfully.