“Well, that’s all right,” said Peter, “but I’d like to know what I’m to get and how I’m to get it.” “How much do you want?” demanded the man with the face of a rat. Rat-like, he was retreating into a corner, his sharp black eyes watching his enemy. “How much?” he repeated. Peter had tried his best to rise to this occasion. Was he not working for the greatest and richest concern in American City, the Traction Trust? Tens and hundreds of millions of dollars they were worth—he had no idea how much, but he knew they could afford to pay for his secret. “I think it ought to be worth two hundred dollars,” he said. “Sure,” said McGivney, “that’s all right. We’ll pay you that.” And straightway Peter’s heart sank. What a fool he had been! Why hadn’t he had more courage, and asked for five hundred dollars? He might even have asked a thousand, and made himself independent for life! “Well,” said McGivney, “who’s the spy?” Peter made an agonizing, effort, and summoned yet more nerve. “First, I got to know, when do I get that money?” “Oh, good God!” said McGivney. “You give us the information, and you’ll get your money all right. What kind of cheap skates do you take us for?” “Well, that’s all right,” said Peter. “But you know, Mr. Guffey didn’t give me any reason to think he loved me. I still can hardly use this wrist like I used to.” “Well, he was trying to get some information out of you,” said McGivney. “He thought you were one of them dynamiters—how could you blame him? You give me the name of that spy, and I’ll see you get your money.” But still Peter wouldn’t yield. He was afraid of the rat-faced McGivney, and his heart was thumping fast, but he stood his ground. “I think I ought to see that money,” he said, doggedly. “Say, what the hell do you take me for?” demanded the detective. “D’you suppose I’m going to give you two hundred dollars and then have you give me some fake name and skip?” “Oh, I wouldn’t do that!” cried Peter. “How do I know you wouldn’t?” “Well, I want to go on working for you.”
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