Newmark arose.
“It's understood, then?” he asked.
“How so I know you play fair?” asked the German.
“You don't. It's a case where we have to depend more or less on each other. But I don't see what you stand to lose—and anyway you'll get carried over those July payments,” Newmark reminded him.
Heinzman was plainly uneasy and slightly afraid of these new waters in which he swam.
“If you reduce the firm's profits, he iss going to suspect,” he admonished.
“Who said anything about reducing the firm's profits?” said Newmark impatiently. “If it does work out that way, we'll win a big thing; if it does not, we'll lose nothing.”
He nodded to Heinzman and left the office. His demeanour was as dry and precise as ever. No expression illuminated his impassive countenance. If he felt the slightest uneasiness over having practically delivered his intentions to the keeping of another, he did not show it. For one thing, an accomplice was absolutely essential. And, too, he held the German by his strongest passions—his avarice, his dread of bankruptcy, his pride, and his fear of the penitentiary. As he entered the office of his own firm, his eye fell on Orde's bulky form seated at the desk. He paused involuntarily, and a slight shiver shook his frame from head to foot—the dainty, instinctive repulsion of a cat for a large robustious dog. Instantly controlling himself, he stepped forward.
“I've made the loan,” he announced.
Orde looked up with interest.