“Don’t get off the subject,” said Lambaire impatiently. “What are you driving at, Whitey? What does it matter to me whether he’s got adventure blood, or lunatic blood, or any other kind of blood--he’s got the chart that his father made, that was found on him when he died and was sent to the daughter by some fool of a Commissioner--eh? _That’s_ what we want!” He rose jerkily, thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, and peeked his head forward, a mannerism of his when he was excited. Though nominally Whitey was Lambaire’s jackal, runner, general man of affairs and dependant, it was easy to see that the big man stood in some fear of his servant, and that there were moments when Whitey took charge and was not to be lightly ignored. Now it was that he was the bully, and overbearing, masterful director of things. With his high thin voice, his vehemence as he hissed and spluttered, he was a little uncanny, terrifying. He possessed a curious vocabulary, and strangely unfamiliar figures of speech. To illustrate his meaning he brought vivid if incongruous picture words to his aid. Sometimes they were undisguised slang words, culled from other lands--Whitey was something of a traveller and had cosmopolitan tastes. “You’re a Shining Red Light, Lambaire,” he went on in furious flow of words. “People are getting out of your road; the Diamond business has got to be settled _at once_. Let people get busy, and they won’t be content with finding out that the mine is minus; they’ll want to know about the silver business and the printing business, and they’ll put two and two together--d’ye see that? You was a fool ever to tackle the diamond game. It was the only straight deal you was ever in, but you didn’t work it straight. If you had, you’d have got Sutton back alive; but no, you must have a funny compass, so that he could find the mine and make a chart of the road and only you could find it! Oh, you’re a Hog of Cleverness, but you’ve overdone it!” He grew a little calmer. “Now look here,” he went on, “young Sutton’s coming to-day, and you’ve got to be Amiable; you’ve got to be Honest; you’ve got to be Engaging; you’ve got to Up and say--‘Look here, old man, let’s put all our cards on the table----’” “I’ll be cursed if I do,” snapped Lambaire; “you’re mad, Whitey. What do you think I’m----” “All the cards on the table,” repeated Whitey slowly, and rapped the desk with his bony knuckles to point each word, “your own pack, Lambaire; you’ve got to say, ‘Look here, old son, let’s understand one another; the fact of the matter is, etc., etc.’” What the etc. was Whitey explained in the course of a heated, caustic and noisy five minutes. At the end of that time Grene appeared on the scene, and the conversation came to an abrupt finish. “Three o’clock,” said Whitey, at the bottom of the stairs, “you play your cards well, and you get yourself out of a nasty mess.” Lambaire grunted an ungracious rejoinder and they parted.