“What’s the use of quarrelling?” asked Huckaby. “She’s a lady if you say so.”
“Of course, old man,” Vandermeer agreed. “Have a drink?”
Billiter being mollified, and the refinement of the Dragoon Guardsman’s widow being accepted as indisputable, a long and confidential conference took place, the conspirators speaking in whispers, with heads close together, although they happened to be alone in the saloon-bar. It was the first time they had contemplated concerted action, the first time they had discussed anything of real interest; so, for the first time they forgot to get fuddled. The plot was simple. Billiter was to approach Mrs. Fontaine (at last he disclosed the lady’s identity) with all the delicacy such a mission demanded, and lay the proposal before her. If she fell in with it she would hold herself in readiness to repair to whatever Continental resort might be indicated, and then having made herself known to Huckaby, would be introduced by him to Quixtus. The rest would follow, as the night the day.
“The part I don’t like about it,” objected Vandermeer, “is not only letting a fourth into our own private concern, but giving her the lion’s share. We’re not a syndicate of philanthropists.”
“I’m by way of thinking it won’t be our concern much longer,” replied Billiter.
“And nobody asked you to come in,” said Huckaby. “You can stand out if you like.”
An ugly look overspread Vandermeer’s foxy face.
“Oh can I? You see what happens if you try that game on.”
“Besides,” continued Billiter, disregarding the snarl, “it will be to our advantage. Which of us is going to touch our demented friend for a hundred pounds? We didn’t do it in former days; much less now. But I’ll back Mrs. Fontaine to get at least three thousand out of him. Thirty per cent, is our commission without which we don’t play, and that gives us three hundred each. I could do with three hundred myself very nicely.”
“How are we to know what she gets?”