“It is mutual,” Zertho snapped, annoyed at the man’s unmitigated insolence. “I’ll pay you nothing more than what you demanded in your letter yesterday,” and taking from his pocket a wallet of dark-green leather with silver mountings, he counted out four five-hundred-franc notes, and tossed them angrily upon the table, saying, “Make the best of them, for you won’t get another sou from me.”
The man addressed stretched out his hand, took the notes, smoothed them out carefully, and slowly placed them in his pocket.
“Then we are enemies?” he observed at last, after a long pause. He looked straight into Zertho’s face.
“Enemies or friends, it makes no difference to me. It does not alter my decision.”
His companion slowly knocked the ash from his cigar, then continued smoking in silence.
“Well, you don’t speak,” exclaimed Zertho, impatiently, at last, twirling his dark moustache. “What is your intention?”
“I never show my hand to my opponent, my dear fellow,” was the quick retort. “And I know you are never unwise enough to do so.”
Zertho had his match in this chevalier d’industrie, and was aware of it.
“You think I’m still in fear?” he said.
“I don’t know; neither do I care,” the other answered. “If you don’t pay me there are others who no doubt will.”