"Fifteen thousand an' over."
Truscott leant forward in his chair and became confidential.
"Dave wants to buy that mill, and I'm going to sell it to him," he said impressively. "I'll take twenty thousand for it, and get as much more as I can. See? Now I don't want that money. I wouldn't care to handle his money. I've got plenty, and the means of making heaps more if I need it."
He paused to let his words sink in. Mansell nodded with his eyes on the brandy bottle. As yet he did not see the man's drift. He did not see where he came in. He waited, and Truscott went on.
"Now what would you be willing to do for that twenty thousand—or more?" he asked smilingly.
The other turned his head with a start, and, for one fleeting second, his beady eyes searched his companion's face. He saw nothing there but quiet good-nature. It was the face of the old Jim Truscott—used to hide the poisoned mind behind it.
"Give me a drink," Mansell demanded roughly. "This needs some thinkin'."
Truscott handed him the bottle, and watched him while he drank nearly half a tumbler of the raw spirit.
"Well?"
Mansell breathed heavily.