“You seem to have this game all figured out,” said Orde with contempt.
Newmark leaned back in his chair. Two bright red spots burned in his ordinarily sallow cheeks. He half closed his eyes.
“You're right,” said he with an ill-concealed satisfaction. “If you play a game, play it through. Each man is different; for each a different treatment is required. The game is infinite, wonderful, fascinating to the skilful.” He opened his eyes and looked over at Orde with a mild curiosity. “I suppose men are about all of one kind to you.”
“Two,” said Orde grimly; “the honest men and the scoundrels.”
“Well,” said the other, “let's settle this thing. The fact remains that the firm owes a note to Heinzman, which it cannot pay. You owe a note to the firm which you cannot pay. All this may be slightly irregular; but for private reasons you do not care to make public the irregularity. Am I right so far?”
Orde, who had been watching him with a slightly sardonic smile, nodded.
“Well, what I want out of this—”
“You might hear the other side,” interrupted Orde. “In the first place,” said he, producing a bundle of papers, “I have the note and the mortgage in my possession.”
“Whence Heinzman will shortly rescue them, as soon as I get to see him,” countered Newmark. “You acknowledge that I can force Heinzman; and you can hardly refuse him.”
“If you force Heinzman, he'll land you,” Orde pointed out.