“The girl—­what girl?”

Renshaw bit his lip, but answered boldly:  “The old man’s daughter—­a poor girl—­whom this act would rob as well as her father.”

Sleight looked at his companion attentively.  “You might have said so at first, and let up on this camp-meetin’ exhortation.  Well then—­admitting you’ve got the old man and the young girl on the same string, and that you’ve played it pretty low down in the short time you’ve been there—­I suppose, Dick Renshaw, I’ve got to see your bluff.  Well, how much is it?  What’s the figure you and she have settled on?”

For an instant Mr. Sleight was in physical danger.

But before he had finished speaking Renshaw’s quick sense of the ludicrous had so far overcome his first indignation as to enable him even to admire the perfect moral insensibility of his companion.  As he rose and walked towards the door, he half wondered that he had ever treated the affair seriously.  With a smile he replied: 

“Far from bluffing, Sleight, I am throwing my cards on the table.  Consider that I’ve passed out.  Let some other man take my hand.  Rake down the pot if you like, old man, I leave for Sacramento to-night. Adios.”

When the door had closed behind him Mr. Sleight summoned his clerk.

“Is that petition for grading Pontiac Street ready?”

“I’ve seen the largest property holders, sir; they’re only waiting for you to sign first,” Mr. Sleight paused and then affixed his signature to the paper his clerk laid before him.  “Get the other names and send it up at once.”

“If Mr. Nott doesn’t sign, sir?”

“No matter.  He will be assessed all the same.”  Mr. Sleight took up his hat.

“The Lascar seaman that was here the other day has been wanting to see you, sir.  I said you were busy.”

Mr. Sleight put down his hat.  “Send him up.”

Nevertheless Mr. Sleight sat down and at once abstracted himself so completely as to be apparently in utter oblivion of the man who entered.  He was lithe and Indian-looking; bearing in dress and manner the careless slouch without the easy frankness of a sailor.

“Well!” said Sleight without looking up.

“I was only wantin’ to know ef you had any news for me, boss?”

“News?” echoed Sleight as if absently; “news of what?”

“That little matter of the Pontiac we talked about, boss,” returned the Lascar with an uneasy servility in the whites of his teeth and eyes.

“Oh,” said Sleight, “that’s played out.  It’s a regular fraud.  It’s an old forecastle yarn, my man, that you can’t reel off in the cabin.”

The sailor’s face darkened.

“The man who was looking into it has thrown the whole thing up.  I tell you it’s played out!” repeated Sleight, without raising his head.

“It’s true, boss—­every word,” said the Lascar, with an appealing insinuation that seemed to struggle hard with savage earnestness.  “You can swear me, boss; I wouldn’t lie to a gentleman like you.  Your man hasn’t half looked, or else—­it must be there, or”—­