... But before we
lose our tempers, what do you say to a fair proposition: leave me what
you have won to-night, and I'll pay it back to the last cent with
interest in less than six months."
P. Sybarite shook his head: "I'm sorry."
The dark blood surged into Penfield's cheeks. "You won't accept my
word--?"
"I have every confidence in your professional honour," P. Sybarite
replied blandly, "up to the certain point to which we have attained
to-night. But the truth is--I need the money."
"You're unwise," said the other, and sighed profoundly. "I'm sorry.
You oblige me to go the extreme limit."
"Not I. On the contrary, I advise you against any such dangerous
course."
"Dangerous?"
"If you interfere with me, I'll go to the police."
"The police?" Penfield elaborated an inflexion of derision. "I keep
this precinct in my vest pocket."
"Possibly--so far as concerns your maintenance of a gambling house.
But murder--that's another matter."
"Meaning, you refuse to submit without extreme measures?"
"Meaning just that, sir!"
Again the gambler sighed. "What must be, must," said he, rising.
Moving to the wall, he pressed a call-button, and simultaneously
whipped a revolver into view. "I hope you're not armed," he protested
sincerely. "It would only make things messy. And then I hate to have
my employees run any risk--"
"You are summoning a posse, I take it?" enquired P.
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