"How much did you take from the Honorable?" he asked sharply.
"You told me to lift his boodle. Time was short—he wouldn't play for long."
"I'm aware of that. How much?"
Lablache's tone was abrupt and peremptory. Mancha was trying to estimate what he should be paid for his work.
"See hyar, I guess we ain't struck no deal yet. What do you propose to pay me?"
The Mexican was sharp but he was no match for his employer. He fancied he saw a good deal over this night's work.
"You played on paper, I know," said the money-lender, quietly. He was quite unmoved by the other's display of cunning. It pleased him rather than otherwise. He knew he held all the cards in his hands—he generally did in dealing with men of this stamp. "To you, the amounts he lost are not worth the paper they are written on. You could never realize them. He couldn't meet 'em."
Lablache leisurely took a pinch of snuff from his snuff-box. He coughed and sneezed voluminously. His indifferent coolness, his air of patronage, aggravated the Mexican while it alarmed him. The deal he anticipated began to assume lesser proportions.
"Which means, I take it, you've a notion you'd like the feel of those same papers."
Mancha had come to drive a bargain. He was aware that the I.O.U.'s he held would take some time to realize on, in the proper quarter, but, at the same time, he was quite aware of the fact that Bunning-Ford would ultimately meet them.