Mr. Horser leaned over the table. His eyes were bloodshot, his tone was fierce and threatening. Mr. Sabin was coldly courteous. The difference between the demeanour of the two men was remarkable.
“You knew what those letters meant! This is a plot! Where is Skinner’s report?”
Mr. Sabin raised his eyebrows. He signaled to the head-waiter.
“Be so good as to continue the service of my dinner,” he ordered. “The champagne is a trifle too chilled. You can take it out of the cooler.”
The man bowed, with a curious side glance at Horser.
“Certainly, your Grace!”
Horser was almost speechless with anger.
“Are you going to answer my questions?” he demanded thickly.
“I have no particular objection to doing so,” Mr. Sabin answered, “but until you can sit up and compose yourself like an ordinary individual, I decline to enter into any conversation with you at all.”
Again Mr. Horser raised his voice, and the glare in his eyes was like the glare of a wild beast.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”
Mr. Sabin looked at him coolly, and fingered his wineglass.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve a shocking memory for names, but yours is—Mr. Horser, isn’t it? I heard it for the first time this morning, and my memory will generally carry me through four-and-twenty hours.”
There was a moment’s silence. Horser was no fool. He accepted his defeat and dropped the bully.
“You’re a stranger in this city, Mr. Sabin, and I guess you aren’t altogether acquainted with our ways yet,” he said. “But I want you to understand this. The report which is in your pocket has got to be returned to me. If I’d known what I was meddling with I wouldn’t have touched your business for a hundred thousand dollars. It’s got to be returned to me, I say!” he repeated in a more threatening tone.
Mr. Sabin helped himself to fish, and made
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