Lablache oozed over to the safe.  He opened it, keeping one heavy eye upon his companion.  He took no chances—­he trusted no one, especially Pedro Mancha.  Presently he returned with a roll of notes.  It contained the exact amount.  The Mexican watched him hungrily as he counted out the green-backed bills.  His lips moistened beneath his mustache—­his eyes looked wilder than ever.  Lablache understood his customer thoroughly.  A loaded revolver was in his own coat pocket.  It is probable that the brown-faced desperado knew this.

At last the money-lender held out the money.  He held out both hands, one to give and the other to receive.  Pedro passed him the I.O.U.’s and took the bills.  One swift glance assured Lablache that the coveted papers were all there.  Then he pointed to the door.

“Our transaction is over.  Go!”

He had had enough of his companion.  He had no hesitation in thus peremptorily dismissing him.

“You’re in a pesky hurry to get rid of me.  See hyar, pard, you’d best be civil.  Your dealin’s ain’t a sight cleaner than mine.”

“I’m waiting.”  Lablache’s tone was coldly commanding.  His lashless eyes gazed steadily into the other’s face.  Something the Mexican saw in them impelled him towards the door.  He moved backwards, keeping his face turned towards the money-lender.  At this moment Lablache was at his best.  His was a dominating personality.  There was no cowardice in his nature—­at least no physical cowardice.  Doubtless, had it come to a struggle where agility was required, he would have fallen an easy prey to his lithe companion; but with him, somehow, it never did come to a struggle.  He had a way with him that chilled any such thought that a would-be assailant might have.  Will and unflinching courage are splendid assets.  And, amongst others, this man possessed both.

Mancha slunk back to the door, and, fumbling at the lock, opened it and passed out.  Lablache instantly whipped out a revolver, and, stepping heavily on one side, advanced to the door, paused and listened.  He was well under cover.  The door was open.  He was behind it.  He knew better than to expose himself in the light for Mancha to make a target of him from without.  Then he kicked the door to.  Making a complete circuit of the walls of the office he came to the opposite side of the door, where he swiftly locked and bolted it.  Then he drew an iron shutter across the light panelling and secured it.

“Good,” he muttered, as, sucking in a heavy breath, he returned to the stove and turned his back to it.  “It’s as well to understand Mexican nature.”

Then he lounged into his basket chair and rubbed his fleshy hands reflectively.  There was a triumphant look upon his repulsive features.

“Quite right, friend Pedro, it’s not a bad deal,” he said to himself, blinking at the red light of the fire.  “Not half bad.  Seven thousand dollars for two thousand dollars, and every cent of it realizable.”  He shook with inward mirth.  “The Hon. William Bunning-Ford will now have to disgorge every stick of his estate.  Good, good!”