"It was merely to pass the time that I first tried my luck at the tables—and look at me now! I haven't even money to pay my hotel bill. For want of a few thousand francs I must lose my chance of the fortune on which I've staked every penny I could scrape together and—and five years of my good time, and—" He started to one side as Slyne cut him short.
"I'm not going to waste five seconds of my good time," said Slyne with concentrated bitterness, "in telling you how many different sorts of a damned fool you are." His expensive cigar had gone out, unheeded. But his keen, close-set eyes were aglow. He was finding it extremely difficult to contain himself.
"Are you sure of your facts?" he demanded, in the same acid, embittered voice.
"From first to last," affirmed Mr. Jobling, so peevishly that Slyne was satisfied. "Haven't I told you that I've spent five years of my life and every penny I could—er—every penny I possessed, in sifting them out, and that I'm a Chancery practitioner? I have most of the papers with me at the Métropole. There's only the one link lacking to complete the long chain I've forged. And—" He lowered his voice to a whisper after looking about him furtively, and, at last, under the decent screen of the darkness, completely demoralised by the events of the day, confided in the Heaven-sent stranger beside him his chief ambition in coming to Monte Carlo. "And even a good enough imitation might serve—"
"No imitation would stand the strain," Slyne interrupted him hoarsely. "And you'll very soon find yourself inside the four walls of a cell, my friend, if you try any forgery of that sort. You can take my word for that, because—I'm the real rivet, and without me all the rest of your precious chain isn't worth a snap of my fingers."
Mr. Jobling subsided into a heap, and was staring at him, open-mouthed. But Slyne said no more for a moment or two. Outwardly quite calm and matter-of-fact, his mind was in a seething turmoil. If all the inept rogue beside him had said were true—He could scarcely restrain an impulse to get to his feet and shout for joy.
The lawyer seemed to have nothing more to say, either. And Slyne, having somewhat recovered command of himself, at length rose, tossing his cold cigar away with an angry oath. "It makes my blood boil," said he, "to think—But for the sheerest accident you'd be a dead man by now—and where would I have been then! You don't deserve such stupendous luck, and, by the Lord Harry! if I find you playing the fool again—You're going to put yourself into my hands from now on, d'ye hear? And, in the first place, I must see those papers you spoke of; if they're in order, I'll see the thing through. We can't work without each other, unfortunately for me, or—"
"You're going too fast," intervened Mr. Jobling, still seated, and with some faint show of spirit. "You're taking too much for granted, sir. I don't even know who you are, and—we must come to terms of some sort before—"
He shrank aside as Slyne stepped forward with twitching fingers and eyes aflame.
"You'll take whatever terms you get—and be precious thankful," hissed Slyne, stooping over him. "You'll do exactly what you're told, no more, and no less. And—you won't forget again, will you, that you've met your master in me?"