Presently there came a tap at the window.  The money-lender ponderously rose, and, cautiously opening the door, admitted the dark, unkempt form of Pedro Mancha.  There was no greeting; neither spoke until Lablache had again secured the door.  Then the money-lender turned his fishy eyes and mask-like face to the newcomer.  He did not suggest that his visitor should sit down.  He merely looked with his cold, cruel eyes, and spoke.

“Well?—­been drinking.”

The latter part of his remark was an assertion.  He knew the Mexican well.  The fellow had an expressive countenance, unlike most of his race, and the least sign of drink was painfully apparent upon it.  The man was not drunk but his wild eyes testified to his recent libations.

“Guess you’ve hit it right thar,” he retorted indifferently.

It was noticeable that this man had adopted the high-pitched, keen tone and pronounced accent of the typical “South-Westerner.”  In truth he was a border Mexican; a type of man closely allied to the “greaser.”  He was a perfect scoundrel, who had doubtless departed from his native land for the benefit of that fair but swarming hornet’s nest.

“It’s a pity when you have business on hand you can’t leave that ‘stuff’ alone.”

Lablache made no effort to conceal his contempt.  He even allowed his mask-like face to emphasize his words.

“You’re almighty pertickler, mister.  You ask for dirty work to be done, an’ when that dirty work’s done, gorl-darn-it you croak like a flannel-mouthed temperance lecturer.  Guess I came hyar to talk straight biz.  Jest leave the temperance track, an’ hit the main trail.”

Pedro’s face was not pretty to look upon.  The ring of white round the pupils of his eyes gave an impression of insanity or animal ferocity.  The latter was his chief characteristic.  His face was thin and scored with scars, mainly long and narrow.  These, in a measure, testified to his past.  His mouth, half hidden beneath a straggling mustache, was his worst feature.  One can only liken it to a blubber-lipped gash, lined inside with two rows of yellow fangs, all in a more or less bad state of decay.

The two men eyed one another steadily for a moment.  Lablache could in no way terrorize this desperado.  Like all his kind this man was ready to sell his services to any master, provided the forthcoming price of such services was sufficiently exorbitant.  He was equally ready to play his employer up should any one else offer a higher price.  But Lablache, when dealing with such men, took no chances.  He rarely employed this sort of man, preferring to do his own dirty work, but when he did, he knew it was policy to be liberal.  Pedro served him well as a rule, consequently the Mexican was enabled to ruffle it with the best in the settlement, whilst people wondered where he got his money from.  Somehow they never thought of Lablache being the source of this man’s means; the money-lender was not fond of parting.