“And I’ll continue to insult you, canaille that you are, all through that room,” he cried, with a swift-flung gesture towards the brilliant doorway. “You are dealing with Aristide Pujol. Will you never understand? The letters and a confession for twenty-five thousand francs.”
“Never in life,” said the Count, and he moved swiftly away.
Aristide caught him by the collar as he stood on the covered terrace, a foot or two from the threshold of the gaming-room.
“I swear to you, I’ll make a scandal that you won’t survive.”
The Count stopped and pushed Aristide’s hand away.
“I admit nothing,” said he. “But you are a gambler and so am I. I will play you for those documents against twenty-five thousand francs.”
“Eh?” said Aristide, staggered for the moment.
The Comte de Lussigny repeated his proposition.
“Bon,” said Aristide. “Trés bon. C’est entendu. C’est fait.”
If Beelzebub had arisen and offered to play beggar-my-neighbour for his soul, Aristide would have agreed; especially after the large whisky and soda and the Mumm Cordon Rouge and the Napoleon brandy which Eugene Miller had insisted on his drinking at dinner.